Tales and fantasies

CO
•CO
CO

AND FANTASIES
>BERT LOUIS STEVENSO".

j : ' •• \

HENRY WALKER,

(BOOKSELLER) LTD.,

37, Briggate,

WORKS BT ROBERT Louis STUVENSOW

AN INLAND VOYAGE

EDINBURGH : PICTURESQUE NOTES

TRAVELS WITH A DONKEY

VIRGINIBUS FUERISQUB

FAMILIAR STUDIES OF MEN AND BOOKS

NEW ARABIAN NIGHTS

TREASURE ISLAND

THE SILVERADO SQUATTERS

A CHILD'S GARDEN OF VERSES

PRINCE OTTO

THE STRANGE CASE OF DR. JEKTLL AND UK. XTDO

KIDNAPPED

THE MERRY MEN

UNDERWOODS

MEMORIES AND PORTRAIT*

THE BLACK ARROW

THE MASTER OF BALLANTXAB

FATHER DAMIEN: AN OPEN LBTTEB

BALLADS

ACROSS THB PLAINS

ISLAND NIGHTS ENTERTAINMENTS

A FOOTNOTB TO HISTORY

CATRIONA

WEIR OF HERMISTON.

VAILIMA LETTERS

LETTERS TO HIS FAMILY AND FKIBMDB

FABLES

SONGS OF TRAVEL

ST. IVES

IN THB SOUTH SEAS

ESSAYS OF TRAVEL

TALES AND FANTASIES

THB ART OF WRITING

LAY MORALS, BTC.

RECORDS OF A FAMILY OF ENGINEERS

MEMOIR OF FLEEMINC JENKIN

FRAYKKS WRITTEN AT VAILIMA

THE WAIF WOMAN.

ON THE CHOICE OF A PROFESSION.

NEW POEMS

WITH MRS. STEVENSON

THE DYNAMITER.

WITH LLOYD OSBOURNE
THB WRONG BOX. THE WRECKER. THE BBB-TIDK.

TALES AND FANTASIES

TALES AND FANTASIES

BY

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

LONDON

CHATTO y WINDUS
1920

CONTENTS

THE MISADVENTURES OF JOHN NICHOLSON

CHAP. PAGE

I. IN WHICH JOHN sows THE WIND . . i
II. IN WHICH JOHN REAPS THE WHIRLWIND 8

III. IN WHICH JOHN ENJOYS THE HARVEST

HOME ... * , - . .15

IV. THE SECOND SOWING. . t . . . 22
V. THE PRODIGAL'S RETURN .... 29

VI. THE HOUSE AT MURRAYFIELD . . . 37
VII. A TRAGI-COMEDY IN A CAB .' * w . 51

VIII. SINGULAR INSTANCE OF THE UTILITY OF

PASS-KEYS . . . . 63

IX. IN WHICH MR. NICHOLSON ACCEPTS THE

PRINCIPLE OF AN ALLOWANCE . . 77

THE BODY-SNATCHER . . 87

THE STORY OF A LIE

I. INTRODUCES THE ADMIRAL . . .115

II. A LETTER TO THE PAPERS . . .122

III. IN THE ADMIRAL'S NAME . . . .129

vu

viii CONTENTS

CHAP. PAGE

IV. ESTHER ON THE FILIAL RELATION . .137

V. THE PRODIGAL FATHER MAKES HIS

DEBUT AT HOME 142

VI. THE PRODIGAL FATHER GOES ON FROM

STRENGTH TO STRENGTH . . .150

VII. THE ELOPEMENT 163

VIII. BATTLE ROYAL 175

IX. IN WHICH THE LIBERAL EDITOR RE-
APPEARS AS "DEUS EX MACHINA" . 186

THE MISADVENTURES OF
JOHN NICHOLSON

CHAPTER I

IN WHICH JOHN SOWS THE WIND

JOHN VAREY NICHOLSON was stupid; yet, stupider
men than he are now sprawling in Parliament, and
lauding themselves as the authors of their own
distinction. He was of a fat habit, even from
boyhood, and inclined to a cheerful and cursory
reading of the face of life ; and possibly this attitude
of mind was the original cause of his misfortunes.
Beyond this hint philosophy is silent on his career,
and superstition steps in with the more ready
explanation that he was detested of the gods.

His father — that iron gentleman — had long ago
enthroned himself on the heights of the Disruption
Principles. What these are (and in spite of their
grim name they are quite innocent) no array of
terms would render thinkable to the merely English
intelligence ; but to the Scot they often prove
unctuously nourishing, and Mr. Nicholson found in
them the milk of lions. About the period when the
churches convene at Edinburgh in their annual
assemblies, he was to be seen descending the Mound

A

2 TALES AND FANTASIES

in the company of divers red-headed clergymen:
these voluble, he only contributing oracular nods,
brief negatives, and the austere spectacle of his
stretched upper lip. The names of Candlish and
Begg were frequent in these interviews, and occasion-
ally the talk ran on the Residuary Establishment and
the doings of one Lee. A stranger to the tight little
theological kingdom of Scotland might have listened
and gathered literally nothing. And Mr. Nicholson
(who was not a dull man) knew this, and raged at it.
He knew there was a vast world outside, to whom
Disruption Principles were as the chatter of tree-top
apes ; the paper brought him chill whiffs from it ;
he had met Englishmen who had asked lightly if he
did not belong to the Church of Scotland, and then
had failed to be much interested by his elucidation
of that nice point; it was an evil, wild, rebellious
world, lying sunk in dozenedness, for nothing short
of a Scots word will paint this Scotsman's feelings.
And when he entered into his own house in Ran-
dolph Crescent (south side), and shut the door
behind him, his heart swelled with security. Here,
at least, was a citadel impregnable by right-hand
defections or left-hand extremes. Here was a
family where prayers came at the same hour,
where the Sabbath literature was unimpeachably
selected, where the guest who should have leaned
to any false opinion was instantly set down, and
over which there reigned all week, and grew denser
on Sundays, a silence that was agreeable to his ear,
and a gloom that he found comfortable.

Mrs. Nicholson had died about thirty, and left

JOHN NICHOLSON 3

him with three children : a daughter two years,
and a son about eight years younger than John ;
and John himself, the unlucky bearer of a name
infamous in English history. The daughter, Maria,
was a good girl — dutiful, pious, dull, but so easily
startled that to speak to her was quite a perilous
enterprise. " I don't think I care to talk about
that, if you please," she would say, and strike the
boldest speechless by her unmistakable pain ; this
upon all topics — dress, pleasure, morality, politics,
in which the formula was changed to " my papa
thinks otherwise," and even religion, unless it was
approached with a particular whining tone of voice.
Alexander, the younger brother, was sickly, clever,
fond of books and drawing, and full of satirical
remarks. In the midst of these, imagine that
natural, clumsy, unintelligent, and mirthful animal,
John; mighty well-behaved in comparison with
other lads, although not up to the mark of the
house in Randolph Crescent ; full of a sort of
blundering affection, full of caresses, which were
never very warmly received ; full of sudden and
loud laughter which rang out in that still house
like curses. Mr. Nicholson himself had a great
fund of humour, of the Scots order — intellectual,
turning on the observation of men; his own char-
acter, for instance — if he could have seen it in
another — would have been a rare feast to him ;
but his son's empty guffaws over a broken plate,
and empty, almost light-hearted remarks, struck
him with pain as the indices of a weak mind.
Outside the family John had early attached him-

4 TALES AND FANTASIES

self (much as a dog may follow a marquis) to
the steps of Alan Houston, a lad about a year
older than himself, idle, a trifle wild, the heir to
a good estate which was still in the hands of a
rigorous trustee, and so royally content with him-
self that he took John's devotion as a thing of
course. The intimacy was gall to Mr. Nicholson;
it took his son from the house, and he was a
jealous parent; it kept him from the office, and he
was a martinet ; lastly, Mr. Nicholson was ambi-
tious for his family (in which, and the Disruption
Principles, he entirely lived), and he hated to see
a son of his play second fiddle to an idler. After
some hesitation, he ordered that the friendship
should cease — an unfair command, though seem-
ingly inspired by the spirit of prophecy ; and John,
saying nothing, continued to disobey the order
under the rose.

John was nearly nineteen when he was one day
dismissed rather earlier than usual from his father's
office, where he was studying the practice of the law.
It was Saturday ; and except that he had a matter of
four hundred pounds in his pocket 'which it was his
duty to hand over to the British Linen Company's
Bank, he had the whole afternoon at his disposal.
He went by Princes Street enjoying the mild sun-
shine, and the little thrill of easterly wind that tossed
the flags along that terrace of palaces, and tumbled
the green trees in the garden. The band was playing
down in the valley under the castle; and when it
came to the turn of the pipers, he heard their wild
sounds with a stirring of the blood. Something

JOHN NICHOLSON 5

distantly martial woke in him; and he thought of
Miss Mackenzie, whom he was to meet that day at
dinner.

Now, it is undeniable that he should have gone
directly to the bank, but right in the way stood the
billiard-room of the hotel where Alan was almost
certain to be found ; and the temptation proved too
strong. He entered the billiard-room, and was in-
stantly greeted by his friend, cue in hand.

" Nicholson," said he, " I want you to lend me a
pound or two till Monday."

"You've come to the right shop, haven't you?"
returned John. " I have twopence."

" Nonsense," said Alan. "You can get some. Go
and borrow at your tailor's; they all do it. Or I'll
tell you what : pop your watch."

" Oh, yes, I dare say," said John. "And how about
my father?"

11 How is he to know? He doesn't wind it up for
you at night, does he ? " inquired Alan, at which
John guffawed. "No, seriously; I am in a fix,"
continued the tempter. "I have lost some money
to a man here. I'll give it you to-night, and you can
get the heirloom out again on Monday. Come ;
it's a small service, after all. I would do a good
deal more for you."

Whereupon John went forth, and pawned his gold
watch under the assumed name of John Froggs,
85 Pleasance. But the nervousness that assailed him
at the door of that inglorious haunt — a pawnshop
— and the effort necessary to invent the pseudonym
(which, somehow, seemed to him a necessary part of

6 TALES AND FANTASIES

the procedure), had taken more time than he
imagined : and when he returned to the billiard-room
with the spoils, the bank had already closed its
doors.

This was a shrewd knock. " A piece of business
had been neglected/' He heard these words in his
father's trenchant voice, and trembled, and then
dodged the thought. After all, who was to know?
He must carry four hundred pounds about with him
till Monday, when the neglect could be surreptitiously
repaired; and meanwhile, he was free to pass the
afternoon on the encircling divan of the billiard-room,
smoking his pipe, sipping a pint of ale, and enjoying
to the masthead the modest pleasures of admiration.

None can admire like a young man. Of all
youth's passions and pleasures, this is the most
common and least alloyed ; and every flash of Alan's
black eyes ; every aspect of his curly head ; every
graceful reach, every easy, stand-off attitude of
waiting ; ay, and down to his shirt-sleeves and wrist-
links, were seen by John through a luxurious glory.
He valued himself by the possession of that royal
friend, hugged himself upon the thought, and swam
in warm azure; his own defects, like vanquished
difficulties, becoming things on which to plume
himself. Only when he thought of Miss Mackenzie
there fell upon his mind a shadow of regret ; that
young lady was worthy of better things than plain
John Nicholson, still known among schoolmates by
the derisive name of " Fatty " ; and he felt, if he
could chalk a cue, or stand at ease, with such a
careless grace as Alan, he could approach the object

JOHN NICHOLSON 7

of his sentiments with a less crushing sense of
inferiority.

Before they parted, Alan made a proposal that was
startling in the extreme. He would be at Colette's
that night about twelve, he said. Why should not
John come there and get the money ? To go to
Colette's was to see life, indeed; it was wrong; it
was against the laws; it partook, in a very dingy
manner, of adventure. Were it known, it was the
sort of exploit that disconsidered a young man for
good with the more serious classes, but gave him
a standing with the riotous. And yet Colette's was
not a hell; it could not come, without vaulting
hyperbole, under the rubric of a gilded saloon ;\ and,
if it was a sin to go there, the sin was merely local
and municipal. Colette (whose name I do not know
how to spell, for I was never in epistolary com-
munication with that hospitable outlaw) was simply
an unlicensed publican, who gave suppers after eleven
at night, the Edinburgh hour of closing. If you
belonged to a club, you could get a much better
supper at the same hour, and lose not a jot in public
esteem. But if you lacked that qualification, and
were an-hungered, or inclined toward conviviality
at unlawful hours, Colette's was your only port.
You were very ill-supplied. The company was not
recruited from the Senate or the Church, though the
Bar was very well represented on the only occasion on
which I flew in the face of my country's laws, and,
taking my reputation An my hand, penetrated into
that grim supper-house. And Colette's frequenters,
thrillingly conscious of wrong-doing and " that two-

8 TALES AND FANTASIES

handed engine (the policeman) at the door," were
perhaps inclined to somewhat feverish excess. But
the place was in no sense a very bad one; and it
is somewhat strange to me, at this distance of time,
how it had acquired its dangerous repute.

In precisely the same spirit as a man may debate a
project to ascend the Matterhorn or to cross Africa,
John considered Alan's proposal, and, greatly daring,
accepted it. As he walked home, the thoughts of
this excursion out of the safe places of life into
the wild and arduous, stirred and struggled in his
imagination with the image of Miss Mackenzie —
incongruous and yet kindred thoughts, for did not
each imply unusual tightening of the pegs of re-
solution ? did not each woo him forth and warn him
back again into himself?

Between these two considerations, at least, he was
more than usually moved ; and when he got to
Randolph Crescent, he quite forgot the four hundred
pounds in the inner pocket of his greatcoat, hung
up the coat, with its rich freight, upon his particular
pin of the hatstand ; and in the very action sealed his
doom.

CHAPTER II

IN WHICH JOHN REAPS THE WHIRLWIND

ABOUT half-past ten it was John's brave good fortune
to offer his arm to Miss Mackenzie, and escort her
home. The night was chill and starry ; all the way

JOHN NICHOLSON 9

eastward the trees of the different gardens rustled
and looked black. Up the stone gully of Leith
Walk, when they came to cross it, the breeze made a
rush and set the flames of the street-lamps quavering ;
and when at last they had mounted to the Royal
Terrace, where Captain Mackenzie lived, a great salt
freshness came in their faces from the sea. These
phases of the walk remained written on John's
memory, each emphasised by the touch of that light
hand on his arm ; and behind all these aspects of
the nocturnal city he saw, in his mind's-eye, a picture
of the lighted drawing-room at home where he had
sat talking with Flora; and his father, from the
other end, had looked on with a kind and ironical
smile. John had read the significance of that smile,
which might have escaped a stranger. Mr. Nicholson
had remarked his son's entanglement with satisfaction,
tinged by humour; and his smile, if it still was a
thought contemptuous, had implied consent.

At the captain's door the girl held out her hand,
with a certain emphasis ; and John took it and kept
it a little longer, and said, "Good-night, Flora, dear,"
and was instantly thrown into much fear by his pre-
sumption. But she only laughed, ran up the steps,
and rang the bell; and while she was waiting for
the door to open, kept close in the porch, and talked
to him from that point as out of a fortification. She
had a knitted shawl over her head ; her blue High-
land eyes took the light from the neighbouring street-
lamp and sparkled; and when the door opened and
closed upon her, John felt cruelly alone.

He proceeded slowly back along the terrace in

io TALES AND FANTASIES

a tender glow ; and when he came to Greenside
Church, he halted in a doubtful mind. Over the
crown of the Calton Hill, to his left, lay the way
to Colette's, where Alan would soon be looking for
his arrival, and where he would now have no more
consented to go than he would have wilfully wal-
lowed in a bog ; the touch of the girl's hand on his
sleeve, and the kindly light in his father's eyes, both
loudly forbidding. But right before him was the
way home, which pointed only to bed, a place of
little ease for one whose fancy was strung to the
lyrical pitch, and whose not very ardent heart was
just then tumultuously moved. The hilltop, the
cool air of the night, the company of the great monu-
ments, the sight of the city under his feet, with its
hills and valleys and crossing files of lamps, drew
him by all he had of the poetic, and he turned that
way; and by that quite innocent deflection, ripened
the crop of his venial errors for the sickle of destiny.
On a seat on the hill above Greenside he sat for
perhaps half-an-hour, looking down upon the lamps
of Edinburgh, and up at the lamps of heaven. Won-
derful were the resolves he formed; beautiful and
kindly were the vistas of future life that sped before
him. He uttered to himself the name of Flora in
so many touching and dramatic keys, -that he be-
came at length fairly melted with tenderness, and
could have sung aloud. At that juncture a certain
creasing in his greatcoat caught his ear. He put
his hand into his pocket, pulled forth the envelope
that held the money, and sat stupefied. The Calton
Hill, about this period, had an ill name of nights;

JOHN NICHOLSON n

and to be sitting there with four hundred pounds
that did not belong to him was hardly wise. He
looked up. There was a man in a very bad hat a
little on one side of him, apparently looking at the
scenery ; from a little on the other a second night-
walker was drawing very quietly near. Up jumped
John. The envelope fell from his hands ; he
stooped to get it, and at the same moment both
men ran in and closed with him.

A little after, he got to his feet very sore and shaken,
the poorer by a purse which contained exactly one
penny postage-stamp, by a cambric handkerchief, and
by the all-important envelope.

Here was a young man on wnom, at the highest
point of lovely exaltation, there had fallen a blow too
sharp to be supported alone ; and not many hundred
yards away his greatest friend was sitting at supper
— ay, and even expecting him. Was it not in the
nature of man that he should run there ? He went
in quest of sympathy — in quest of that droll article
that we all suppose ourselves to want when in a
strait, and have agreed to call advice ; and he went,
besides, with vague but rather splendid expectations
of relief. Alan was rich, or would be so when he
came of age. By a stroke of the pen he might
remedy this misfortune, and avert that dreaded inter-
view with Mr. Nicholson, from which John now
shrunk in imagination as the hand draws back from
fire.

Close under the Calton Hill there runs a certain
narrow avenue, part street, part by-road. The
head of it faces the doors of the prison; its tail

12 TALES AND FANTASIES

descends into the sunless slums of the Low Caltoii.
On one hand it is overhung by the crags of the
hill, on the other by an old graveyard. Between
these two the roadway runs in a trench, sparsely
lighted at night, sparsely frequented by day, and
bordered, when it was cleared the place of tombs,
by dingy and ambiguous houses One of these was
the house of Colette ; and at his door our ill-starred
John was presently beating for admittance. In an
evil hour he satisfied the jealous inquiries of the
contraband hotel-keeper ; in an evil hour he pene-
trated into the somewhat unsavoury interior. Alan,
to be sure, was there, seated in a room lighted by
noisy gas-jets, beside a dirty table-cloth, engaged on
a coarse meal, and in the company of several tipsy
members of the junior bar. But Alan was not sober ;
he had lost a thousand pounds upon a horse-race,
had received the news at dinner-time, and was now,
in default of any possible means of extrication, drown-
ing the memory of his predicament. He to help
John ! The thing was impossible ; he couldn't help
himself.

" If you have a beast of a father," said he, "I can
tell you I have a brute of a trustee."

" I'm not going to hear my father called a beast,"
said John with a beating heart, feeling that he risked
the last sound rivet of the chain that bound him to life.

But Alan was quite good-natured.

" All right, old fellow," said he. " Mos' respec'able
man your father." And he introduced his friend to
his companions as " old Nicholson the what-d'ye-
call-um's son."

JOHN NICHOLSON 13

John sat in dumb agony. Colette's foul walls* and
maculate table - linen, -and even down to Colette's
villainous casters, seemed like objects in a night-
mare. And just then there came a knock and a
scurrying; the police, so lamentably absent from
the Gallon Hill, appeared upon the scene ; and the
party, taken flagrante delicti, with their glasses at
their elbow, were seized, marched up to the police
office, and all duly summoned to appear as witnesses
in the consequent case against that arch-shebeener,
Colette.

It was a sorrowful and a mightily sobered company
that came forth again. The vague terror of public
opinion weighed generally on them all; but there
were private and particular horrors on the minds
of individuals. Alan stood in dread of his trustee,
already sorely tried. One of the group was the
son of a country minister, another of a judge ; John,
the unhappiest of all, had David Nicholson to father,
the idea of facing whom on such a scandalous sub-
ject was physically sickening. They stood awhile
consulting under the buttresses of Saint Giles ; thence
they adjourned to the lodgings of one of the number
in North Castle Street, where (for that matter) they
might have had quite as good a supper, and far
better drink, than in the dangerous paradise from
which they had been routed. There, over an almost
tearful glass, they debated their position. Each
explained he had the world to lose if the affair
went on, and he appeared as a witness. It was re-
markable what bright prospects were just then in the
very act of opening before each of that little com-

14 TALES AND FANTASIES

pany of youths, and what pious consideration for
the feelings of their families began now to well from
them. Each, moreover, was in an odd state of
destitution. Not one could bear his share of the
fine; not one but evinced a wonderful twinkle of
hope that each of the others (in succession) was the
very man who could step in to make good the deficit.
One took a high hand ; he could not pay his share ;
if it went to a trial, he should bolt; he had always
felt the English Bar to be his true sphere. Another
branched out into touching details about his family,
but was not listened to. John, in the midst of this
disorderly competition of poverty and meanness,
sat stunned, contemplating the mountain bulk of
his misfortunes.

At last, upon a pledge that each should apply to
his family with a common frankness, this convention
of unhappy young asses broke up, went down the
common stair, and in the grey of the spring morning,
with the streets lying dead empty all about them,
the lamps burning on into the daylight in diminished
lustre, and the birds beginning to sound premoni-
tory notes from the groves of the town gardens,
went each his own way with bowed head and echoing
footfall.

The rooks were awake in Randolph Crescent;
but the windows looked down, discreetly blinded,
on the return of the prodigal. John's pass-key
was a recent privilege; this was the first time it
had been used ; and, oh ! with what a sickening
sense of his unworthiness he now inserted it into
the well-oiled lock and entered that citadel of the

JOHN NICHOLSON 15

proprieties ! All slept ; the gas in the hall had
been left faintly burning to light his return; a
dreadful stillness reigned, broken by the deep
ticking of the eight-day clock. He put the gas
out, and sat on a chair in the hall, waiting and
counting the minutes, longing for any human
countenance. But when at last he heard the alarm
spring its rattle in the lower story, and the servants
begin to be about, he instantly lost heart, and fled
to his own room, where he threw himself upon the
bed.

CHAPTER III

IN WHICH JOHN ENJOYS THE HARVEST HOME

SHORTLY after breakfast, at which he assisted with
a highly tragical countenance, John sought his father
where he sat, presumably in religious meditation,
on the Sabbath mornings. The old gentleman
looked up with that sour, inquisitive expression
that came so near to smiling and was so different
in effect.

"This is a time when I do not like to be dis-
turbed," he said.

11 1 know that," returned John; "but I have— I
want — I've made a dreadful mess of it," he broke
out, and turned to the window.

Mr. Nicholson sat silent for an appreciable time,
while his unhappy son surveyed the poles in the
back green, and a certain yellow cat that was perched

16 TALES AND FANTASIES

upon the wall. Despair sat upon John as he gazed ;
and he raged to think of the dreadful series of his
misdeeds, and the essential innocence that lay behind
them.

" WeH," said the father, with an obvious effort, but
in very quiet tones, " what is it ? "

"Maclean gave me four hundred pounds to put
in the bank, sir," began John ; " and I'm sorry to say
that I've been robbed of it ! "

"Robbed of it?" cried Mr. Nicholson, with a
strong rising inflection. " Robbed? Be careful what
you say, John ! "

" I can't say anything else, sir ; I was just robbed
of it," said John, in desperation, sullenly.

" And where and when did this extraordinary event
take place ? " inquired the father.

" On the Calton Hill about twelve last night."

"The Calton Hill?" repeated Mr. Nicholson.
"And what were you doing there at such a time
of the night ? "

" Nothing, sir," says John.

Mr. Nicholson drew in his breath.

" And how came the money in your hands at twelve
last night ? " he asked sharply.

" I neglected that piece of business," said John,
anticipating comment ; and then in his own dialect :
" I clean forgot all about it."

" Well," said his father, " it's a most extraordinary
story. Have you communicated with the police ? "

"I have," answered poor John, the blood leaping
to his face. " They think they know the men that
did it. I dare say the money will be recovered, if

JOHN NICHOLSON 17

that was all," said he, with a desperate indifference,
which his father set down to levity ; but which sprang
from the consciousness of worse behind.

41 Your mother's watch, too ? " asked Mr. Nicholson.

"Oh, the watch is all right!" cried John. "At
least, I mean I was coming to the watch — the fact
is, I am ashamed to say, I — I had pawned the watch
before. Here is the ticket; they didn't find that;
the watch can be redeemed ; they don't sell pledges."
The lad panted out these phrases, one after another,
like minute guns ; but at the last word, which rang
in that stately chamber like an oath, his heart failed
him utterly ; and the dreaded silence settled on father
and son.

It was broken by Mr. Nicholson picking up the
pawn-ticket: "John Froggs, 85 Pleasance," he read;
and then turning upon John, with a brief flash of
passion and disgust, " Who is John Froggs ? " he cried.

" Nobody," said John. " It was just a name."

" An alias" his father commented.

" Oh ! I think scarcely quite that," said the culprit ;
" it's a form, they all do it, the man seemed to
understand, we had a great deal of fun over the
name "

He paused at that, for he saw his father wince
at the picture like a man physically struck; and
again there was silence.

"I do not think," said Mr. Nicholson, at last,
"that I am an ungenerous father. I have never
grudged you money within reason, for any avow-
able purpose ; you had just to come to me and
speak. And now I find that you have forgotten

i8 TALES AND FANTASIES

all decency and all natural feeling, and actually
pawned — pawned — your mother's watch. You must
have had some temptation ; I will do you the justice
to suppose it was a strong one. What did you want
with this money ? "

"I would rather not tell you, sir," said John.
" It will only make you angry."

"I will not be fenced with," cried his father.
"There must be an end of disingenuous answers.
What did you want with this money?"

"To lend it to Houston, sir," says John.

11 1 thought I had forbidden you to speak to that
young man ? " asked the father.

"Yes, sir," said John; "but I only met him.n

"Where?" came the deadly question.

And " In a billiard-room " was the damning
answer. Thus, had John's single departure from
the truth brought instant punishment. For no
other purpose but to see Alan would he have
entered a billiard-room; but he had desired to
palliate the fact of his disobedience, and now it
appeared that he frequented these disreputable
haunts upon his own account.

Once more Mr. Nicholson digested the vile tid-
ings in silence; and when John stole a glance at
his father's countenance, he was abashed to see the
marks of suffering.

"Well," said the old gentleman, at last, "I cannot
pretend not to be simply bowed down. I rose this
morning what the world calls a happy man — happy,
at least, in a son of whom I thought I could be
reasonably proud "

JOHN NICHOLSON 19

But it was beyond human nature to endure this
longer, and John interrupted almost with a scream.
"Oh, wheest!" he cried, " that's not all, that's not
the worst of it — it's nothing! How could I tell
you were proud of me? Oh ! I wish, I wish that
I had known ; but you always said I was such a
disgrace ! And the dreadful thing is this : we
were all taken up last night, and we have to pay
Colette's fine among the six, or we'll be had up
for evidence — shebeening it is. They made me
swear to tell you; but for my part," he cried,
bursting into tears, " I just wish that I was dead ! "
And he fell on his knees before a chair and hid his
face.

Whether his father spoke, or whether he remained
long in the room or at once departed, are points
lost to history. A horrid turmoil of mind and body ;
bursting sobs; broken, vanishing thoughts, now of
indignation, now of remorse ; broken elementary
whiffs of consciousness, of the smell of the horse-
hair on the chair bottom, of the jangling of church
bells that now began to make day horrible through-
out the confines of the city, of the hard floor that
bruised his knees, of the taste of tears that found
their way into his mouth : for a period of time, the
duration of which I cannot guess, while I refuse to
dwell longer on its agony, these were the whole of
God's world for John Nicholson.

When at last, as by the touching of a spring, he
returned again to clearness of consciousness and
even a measure of composure, the bells had but
just done ringing, and the Sabbath silence was

20 TALES AND FANTASIES

still marred by the patter of belated feet. By the
clock above the fire, as well as by these more
speaking signs, the service had not long begun;
and the unhappy sinner, if his father had really
gone to church, might count on near two hours
of only comparative unhappiness. With his father,
the superlative degree returned infallibly. He knew
it by every shrinking fibre in his body, he knew it
by the sudden dizzy whirling of his brain, at the
mere thought of that calamity. An hour and a half,
perhaps an hour and three-quarters, if the doctor
was long-winded, and then would begin again that
active agony from which, even in the dull ache of
the present, he shrunk as from the bite of fire.
He saw, in a vision, the family pew, the somnolent
cushions, the Bibles, the psalm-books, Maria with
her smelling-salts, his father sitting spectacled and
critical ; and at once he was struck with indignation,
not unjustly. It was inhuman to go off to church,
and leave a sinner in suspense, unpunished, un-
forgiven. And at the very touch of criticism, the
paternal sanctity was lessened ; yet the paternal
terror only grew; and the two strands of feeling
pushed him in the same direction.

And suddenly there came upon him a mad fear
lest his father should have locked him in. The
notion had no ground in sense; it was probably no
more than a reminiscence of similar calamities in
childhood, for his father's room had always been
the chamber of inquisition and the scene of punish-
ment ; but it stuck so rigorously in his mind that
he must instantly approach the door and prove its

JOHN NICHOLSON 21

untruth. As he went, he struck upon a drawer
left open in the business table. It was the money-
drawer, a measure of his father's disarray : the
money -drawer — perhaps a pointing providence !
Who is to decide, when even divines differ between
a providence and a temptation ? or who, sitting
calmly under his own vine, is to pass a judgment
on the doings of a poor, hunted dog, slavishly
afraid, slavishly rebellious, like John Nicholson on
that particular Sunday? His hand was in the
drawer, almost before his mind had conceived the
hope; and rising to his new situation, he wrote,
sitting in his father's chair and using his father's
blotting-pad, his pitiful apology and farewell : —

" MY DEAR FATHER, — I have taken the money,
but I will pay it back as soon as I am able. You
will never hear of me again. I did not mean any
harm by anything, so I hope you will try and forgive
me. I wish you would say good-bye to Alexander
and Maria, but not if you don't want to. I could
not wait to see you, really. Please try to forgive
me. Your affectionate son,

"JOHN NICHOLSON."

The coins abstracted and the missive written, he
could not be gone too soon from the scene of these
transgressions ; and remembering how his father had
once returned from church, on some slight illness,
in the middle of the second psalm, he durst not
even make a packet of a change of clothes. Attired
as he was, he slipped from the paternal doors, and
found himself in the cool spring air, the thin spring

22 TALES AND FANTASIES

sunshine, and the great Sabbath quiet of the city,
which was now only pointed by the cawing of the
rooks. There was not a soul in Randolph Crescent,
nor a soul in Queensferry Street; in this outdoor
privacy and the sense of escape, John took heart
again ; and with a pathetic sense of leave-taking, he
even ventured up the lane and stood awhile, a strange
peri at the gates of a quaint paradise, by the west end
of St. George's Church. They were singing within ;
and by a strange chance, the tune was " St. George's,
Edinburgh," which bears the name, and was first
sung in the choir of that church. " Who is this King
of Glory ? " went the voices from within ; and, to
John, this was like the end of all Christian observ-
ances, for he was now to be a wild man like Ishmael,
and his life was to be cast in homeless places and
with godless people.

It was thus, with no rising sense of the adven-
turous, but in mere desolation and despair, that he
turned his back on his native city, and set out on
foot for California, with a more immediate eye to
Glasgow.

CHAPTER IV

THE SECOND SOWING

IT is no part of mine to narrate the adventures of
John Nicholson, which were many, but simply his
more momentous misadventures, which were more
than he desired, and, by human standards, more
than he deserved; how he reached California, how

JOHN NICHOLSON 23

he was rooked, and robbed, and beaten, and starved;
how he was at last taken up by charitable folk, re-
stored to some degree of self-complacency, and in-
stalled as a clerk in a bank in San Francisco, it
would take too long to tell; nor in these episodes
were there any marks of the peculiar Nicholsonic
destiny, for they were just such matters as befell
some thousands of other young adventurers in the
same days and places. But once posted in the bank,
he fell for a time into a high degree of good fortune,
which, as it was only a longer way about to fresh
disaster, it behooves me to explain.

It was his luck to meet a young man in what is
technically called a " dive," and thanks to his monthly
wages, to extricate this new acquaintance from a
position of present disgrace and possible danger in
the future. This young man was the nephew of one
of the Nob Hill magnates, who run the San Francisco
Stock Exchange, much as more humble adventurers,
in the comer of some public park at home, may be
seen to perform the simple artifice of pea and thimble :
for their own profit, that is to say, and the discourage-
ment of public gambling. It was thus in his power
— and, as he was of grateful temper, it was among
the things that he desired — to put John in the way
of growing rich; and thus, without thought or in-
dustry, or so much as even understanding the game
at which he played, but by simply buying and selling
what he was told to buy and sell, that plaything of
fortune was presently at the head of between eleven
and twelve thousand pounds, or, as he reckoned it,
of upward of sixty thousand dollars.

24 TALES AND FANTASIES

How he had come to deserve this wealth, any
more than how he had formerly earned disgrace at
home, was a problem beyond the reach of his philo-
sophy. It was true that he had been industrious at
the bank, but no more so than the cashier, who had
seven small children and was visibly sinking in de-
cline. Nor was the step which had determined his
advance — a visit to a dive with a month's wages in
his pocket — an act of such transcendent virtue, or
even wisdom, as to seem to merit the favour of the
gods. From some sense of this, and of the dizzy
see-saw — heaven-high, hell-deep — on which men sit
clutching ; or perhaps fearing that the sources of his
fortune might be insidiously traced to some root in
the field of petty cash ; he stuck to his work, said
not a word of his new circumstances, and kept his
account with a bank in a different quarter of the
town. The concealment, innocent as it seems, was
the first step in the second tragi-comedy of John's
existence.

Meanwhile, he had never written home. Whether
from diffidence or shame, or a touch of anger, or
mere procrastination, or because (as we have seen)
he had no skill in literary arts, or because (as I am
sometimes tempted to suppose) there is a law in
human nature that prevents young men — not other-
wise beasts — from the performance of this simple act
of piety — months and years had gone by, and John
had never written. The habit of not writing, indeed,
was already fixed before he had begun to come into
his fortune ; and it was only the difficulty of breaking
this long silence that withheld him from an instant

JOHN NICHOLSON 25

restitution of the money he had stolen or (as he pre-
ferred to call it) borrowed. In vain he sat before
paper, attending on inspiration ; that heavenly nymph,
beyond suggesting the words " my dear father," re-
mained obstinately silent ; and presently John would
crumple up the sheet and decide, as soon as he had
"a good chance," to carry the money home in person.
And this delay, which is indefensible, was his second
step into the snares of fortune.

Ten years had passed, and John was drawing near
to thirty. He had kept the promise of his boyhood,
and was now of a lusty frame, verging toward cor-
pulence ; good features, good eyes, a genial manner,
a ready laugh, a long pair of sandy whiskers, a dash
of an American accent, a close familiarity with the
great American joke, and a certain likeness to a R-y-1
P-rs-n-ge, who shall remain nameless for me, made up
the man's externals as he could be viewed in society.
Inwardly, in spite of his gross body and highly mas-
culine whiskers, he was more like a maiden lady than
a man of twenty-nine.

It chanced one day, as he was strolling down Market
Street on the eve of his fortnight's holiday, that his
eye was caught by certain railway bills, and in very
idleness of mind he calculated that he might be home
for Christmas if he started on the morrow. The
fancy thrilled him with desire, and in one moment
he decided he would go.

There was much to be done : his portmanteau to
be packed, a credit to be got from the bank where
he was a wealthy customer, and certain offices to be
transacted for that other bank in which he was an

26 TALES AND FANTASIES

humble clerk; and it chanced, in conformity with
human nature, that out of all this business it was the
last that came to be neglected. Night found him,
not only equipped with money of his own, but once
more (as on that former occasion) saddled with a
considerable sum of other people's.

Now it chanced there lived in the same board-
ing-house a fellow-clerk of his, an honest fellow,
with what is called a weakness for drink — though
it might, in this case, have been called a strength,
for the victim had been drunk for weeks together
without the briefest intermission. To this un-
fortunate John entrusted a letter with an enclosure
of bonds, addressed to the bank manager. Even
as he did so he thought he perceived a certain
haziness of eye and speech in his trustee; but he
was too hopeful to be stayed, silenced the voice of
warning in his bosom, and with one and the same
gesture committed the money to the clerk, and
himself into the hands of destiny.

I dwell, even at the risk of tedium, on John's
minutest errors, his case being so perplexing to
the moralist ; but we have done with them now,
the roll is closed, the reader has the worst of our
poor hero, and I leave him to judge for himself
whether he or John has been the less deserving.
Henceforth we have to follow the spectacle of a
man who was a mere whip-top for calamity ; on
whose unmerited misadventures not even the
humourist can look without pity, and not even
the philosopher without alarm.

That same night the clerk entered upon a bout

JOHN NICHOLSON 27

of drunkenness so consistent as to surprise even
his intimate acquaintance. He was speedily ejected
from the boarding-house ; deposited his portman-
teau with a perfect stranger, who did not even
catch his name ; wandered he knew not where, and
was at last hove-to, all standing, in a hospital at
Sacramento. There, under the impenetrable alias
of the number of his bed, the crapulous being lay
for some more days unconscious of all things, and
of one thing in particular: that the police were
after him. Two months had come and gone
before the convalescent in the Sacramento hospital
was identified with Kirkman, the absconding San
Francisco clerk ; even then, there must elapse
nearly a fortnight more till the perfect stranger
could be hunted up, the portmanteau recovered,
and John's letter carried at length to its destina-
tion, the seal still unbroken, the enclosure still
intact.

Meanwhile, John had gone upon his holidays
without a word, which was irregular; and there
had disappeared with him a certain sum of money,
which was out of all bounds of palliation. But
he was known to be careless, and believed to be
honest; the manager besides had a regard for
him ; and little was said, although something was
no doubt thought, until the fortnight was finally
at an end, and the time had come for John to
reappear. Then, indeed, the affair began to look
black ; and when inquiries were made, and the
penniless clerk was found to have amassed thou-
sands of dollars, and kept them secretly in a rival

28 TALES AND FANTASIES

establishment, the stoutest of his friends abandoned
him, the books were overhauled for traces of ancient
and artful fraud, and though none were found, there
still prevailed a general impression of loss. The
telegraph was set in motion ; and the correspondent
of the bank in Edinburgh, for which place it was
understood that John had armed himself with
extensive credits, was warned to communicate with
the police.

Now this correspondent was a friend of Mr.
Nicholson's ; he was well acquainted with the tale
of John's calamitous disappearance from Edin-
burgh ; and putting one thing with another,
hasted with the first word of this scandal, not to
the police, but to his friend. The old gentleman
had long regarded his son as one dead ; John's
place had been taken, the memory of his faults
had already fallen to be one of those old aches,
which awaken again indeed upon occasion, but
which we can always vanquish by an effort of the
will ; and to have the long lost resuscitated in a
fresh disgrace was doubly bitter.

" Macewen," said the old man, " this must be
hushed up, if possible. If I give you a check for
this sum, about which they are certain, could you
take it on yourself to let the matter rest ? "

"I will," said Macewen. "I will take the risk
of it."

" You understand," resumed Mr. Nicholson,
speaking precisely, but with ashen lips, " I do
this for my family, not for that unhappy young
man. If it should turn out that these suspicions

JOHN NICHOLSON 29

are correct, and he has embezzled large sums, he
must lie on his bed as he has made it" And
then looking up at Macewen with a nod, and one
of his strange smiles : " Good-bye," said he, and
Macewen, perceiving the case to be too grave for
consolation, took himself off, and blessed God on
his way home that he was childless.

CHAPTER V
THE PRODIGAL'S RETURN

BY a little after noon on the eve of Christmas, John
had left his portmanteau in the cloak-room, and
stepped forth into Princes Street with a wonderful
expansion of the soul, such as men enjoy on the
completion of long-nourished schemes. He was at
home again, incognito and rich ; presently he could
enter his father's house by means of the pass-key,
which he had piously preserved through all his wan-
derings ; he would throw down the borrowed money ;
there would be a reconciliation, the details of which
he frequently arranged ; and he saw himself, during
the next month, made welcome in many stately
houses at many frigid dinner-parties, taking his share
in the conversation with the freedom of the man and
the traveller, and laying down the law upon finance
with the authority of the successful investor. But
this programme was not to be begun before evening
— not till just before dinner, indeed, at which meal
the reassembled family were to sit roseate, and the

30 TALES AND FANTASIES

best wine, the modern fatted calf, should flow for
the prodigal's return.

Meanwhile he walked familiar streets, merry re-
miniscences crowding round him, sad ones also, both
with the same surprising pathos. The keen frosty
air; the low, rosy, wintry sun; the castle, hailing
him like an old acquaintance ; the names of friends
on door-plates ; the sight of friends whom he seemed
to recognise, and whom he eagerly avoided, in the
streets ; the pleasant chant of the north-country
accent ; the dome of St. George's reminding him of
his last penitential moments in the lane, and of that
King of Glory whose name had echoed ever since
in the saddest corner of his memory ; and the gutters
where he had learned to slide, and the shop where
he had bought his skates, and the stones on which
he had trod, and the railings in which he had rattled
his clachan as he went to school; and all those
thousand and one nameless particulars, which the
eye sees without noting, which the memory keeps
indeed yet without knowing, and which, taken one
with another, build up for us the aspect of the place
that we call home : all these besieged him, as he
went, with both delight and sadness.

His first visit was for Houston, who had a house
on Regent Terrace, kept for him in old days by an
aunt. The door was opened (to his surprise) upon
the chain, and a voice asked him from within what
he wanted.

"I want Mr. Houston — Mr. Alan Houston/1
said he.

" And who are ye ? " said the voice.

JOHN NICHOLSON 31

11 This is most extraordinary," thought John ; and
then aloud he told his name.

" No' young Mr. John ? " cried the voice, with a
sudden increase of Scotch accent, testifying to a
friendlier feeling.

" The very same," said John.

And the old butler removed his defences, remark-
ing only, "I thocht ye were that man." But his
master was not there ; he was staying, it appeared,
at the house in Murrayfield ; and though the butler
would have been glad enough to have taken his place
and given all the news of the family, John, struck
with a little chill, was eager to be gone. Only, the
door was scarce closed again, before he regretted
that he had not asked about " that man."

He was to pay no more visits till he had seen his
father and made all well at home ; Alan had been
the only possible exception, and John had not time
to go as far as Murrayfield. But here he was on
Regent Terrace ; there was nothing to prevent him
going round the end of the hill, and looking from
without on the Mackenzies' house. As he went, he
reflected that Flora must now be a woman of near
his own age, and it was within the bounds of pos-
sibility that she was married ; but this dishonourable
doubt he dammed down.

There was the house, sure enough ; but the door
was of another colour, and what was this — two door-
plates? He drew nearer; the top one bore, with
dignified simplicity, the words, " Mr. Proudfoot " ;
the lower one was more explicit, and informed the
passer-by that here was likewise the abode of " Mr.

32 TALES AND FANTASIES

J. A. Dunlop Proudfoot, Advocate." The Proud-
foots must be rich, for no advocate could look to
have much business in so remote a quarter; and
John hated them for their wealth and for their name,
and for the sake of the house they desecrated with
their presence. He remembered a Proudfoot he
had seen at school, not known : a little, whey-faced
urchin, the despicable member of some lower class.
Could it be this abortion that had climbed to be an
advocate, and now lived in the birthplace of Flora
and the home of John's tenderest memories? The
chill that had first seized upon him when he heard
of Houston's absence deepened and struck inward.
For a moment, as he stood under the doors of that
estranged house, and looked east and west along
the solitary pavement of the Royal Terrace, where
not a cat was stirring, the sense of solitude and
desolation took him by the throat, and he wished
himself in San Francisco.

And then the figure he made, with his decent
portliness, his whiskers, the money in his purse, the
excellent cigar that he now lighted, recurred to his
mind in consolatory comparison with that of a cer-
tain maddened lad who, on a certain spring Sunday
ten years before, and in the hour of church-time
silence, had stolen from that city by the Glasgow
road. In the face of these changes it were impious
to doubt fortune's kindness. All would be well yet ;
the Mackenzies would be found, Flora, younger and
lovelier and kinder than before; Alan would be
found, and would have so nicely discriminated his
behaviour as to have grown, on the one hand, into

JOHN NICHOLSON 33

a valued friend of Mr. Nicholson's, and to have re-
mained, upon the other, of that exact shade of joviality
which John desired in his companions. And so,
once more, John fell to work discounting the de-
lightful future: his first appearance in the family
pew ; his first visit to his uncle Greig, who thought
himself so great a financier, and on whose purblind
Edinburgh eyes John was to let in the dazzling day-
light of the West ; and the details in general of that
unrivalled transformation scene, in which he was to
display to all Edinburgh a portly and successful
gentleman in the shoes of the derided fugitive.

The time began to draw near when his father
would have returned from the office, and it would
be the prodigal's cue to enter. He strolled westward
by Albany Street, facing the sunset embers, pleased,
he knew not why, to move in that cold air and indigo
twilight, starred with street-lamps. But there was
one more disenchantment waiting him by the way.

At the corner of Pitt Street he paused to light a
fresh cigar ; the vesta threw, as he did so, a strong
light upon his features, and a man of about his own
age stopped at sight of it.

" I think your name must be Nicholson," said the
stranger.

It was too late to avoid recognition ; and besides,
as John was now actually on the way home, it hardly
mattered, and he gave way to the impulse of his
nature.

" Great Scott ! " he cried, " Beatson ! " and shook
hands with warmth. It scarce seemed he was repaid
in kind.

c

34 TALES AND FANTASIES

" So you're home again ? " said Beatson. " Where
have you been all this long time ? "

" In the States," said John — "California. I've made
my pile, though ; and it suddenly struck me it would
be a noble scheme to come home for Christmas."

"I see," said Beatson. "Well, I hope we'll see
something of you now you're here."

" Oh, I guess so," said John, a little frozen.

"Well, ta-ta," concluded Beatson, and he shook
hands again and went

This was a cruel first experience. It was idle
to blink facts : here was John home again, and
Beatson — Old Beatson — did not care a rush. He
recalled Old Beatson in the past — that merry and
affectionate lad — and their joint adventures and mis-
haps, the window they had broken with a catapult in
India Place, the escalade of the castle rock, and
many another inestimable bond of friendship ; and
his hurt surprise grew deeper. Well, after all, it was
only on a man's own family that he could count;
blood was thicker than water, he remembered ; and
the net result of this encounter was to bring him to
the doorstep of his father's house, with tenderer and
softer feelings.

The night had come ; the fanlight over the door
shone bright ; the two windows of the dining-room
where the cloth was being laid, and the three windows
of the drawing-room where Maria would be waiting
dinner, glowed softlier through yellow blinds. It
was like a vision of the past. All this time of his
absence life had gone forward with an equal foot,
and the fires and the gas had been lighted, and the

JOHN NICHOLSON 35

meals spread, at the accustomed hours. At the ac-
customed hour, too, the bell had sounded thrice to
call the family to worship. And at the thought, a
pang of regret for his demerit seized him; he re-
membered the things that were good and that he had
neglected, and the things that were evil and that he
had loved ; and it was with a prayer upon his lips
that he mounted the steps and thrust the key into
the keyhole.

He stepped into the lighted hall, shut the door
softly behind him, and stood there fixed in wonder.
No surprise of strangeness could equal the surprise
of that complete familiarity. There was the bust
of Chalmers near the stair-railings, there was the
clothes-brush in the accustomed place; and there,
on the hat-stand, hung hats and coats that must
surely be the same as he remembered. Ten years
dropped from his life, as a pin may slip between
the fingers ; and the ocean and the mountains, and
the mines, and crowded marts and mingled races of
San Francisco, and his own fortune and his own
disgrace, became, for that one moment, the figures
of a dream that was over.

He took off his hat, and moved mechanically to-
ward the stand ; and there he found a small change
that was a great one to him. The pin that had been
his from boyhood, where he had flung his balmoral
when he loitered home from the Academy, and his
first hat when he came briskly back from college or
the office — his pin was occupied. " They might have
at least respected my pin ! " he thought, and he was
moved as by a slight, and began at once to recollect

36 TALES AND FANTASIES

that he was here an interloper, in a strange house,
which he had entered almost by a burglary, and
where at any moment he might be scandalously
challenged.

He moved at once, his hat still in his hand, to
the door of his father's room, opened it, and entered.
Mr. Nicholson sat in the same place and posture
as on that last Sunday morning ; only he was older,
and greyer, and sterner ; and as he now glanced up
and caught the eye of his son, a strange commotion
and a dark flush sprung into his face.

" Father," said John steadily, and even cheerfully,
for this was a moment against which he was long
ago prepared, "father, here I am, and here is the
money that I took from you. I have come back
to ask your forgiveness, and to stay Christmas with
you and the children."

" Keep your money," said the father, " and go ! "

" Father ! " cried John ; " for God's sake don't
receive me this way. I've come for "

"Understand me," interrupted Mr. Nicholson;
" you are no son of mine ; and in the sight of God,
I wash my hands of you. One last thing I will tell
you ; one warning I will give you ; all is discovered,
and you are being hunted for your crimes ; if you
are still at large it is thanks to me ; but I have done
all that I mean to do; and from this time forth I
would not raise one finger — not one finger — to save
you from the gallows ! And now," with a low voice
of absolute authority, and a single weighty gesture of
the finger, " and now — go ! "

JOHN NICHOLSON 37

CHAPTER VI

THE HOUSE AT MURRAYFIELD

How John passed the evening, in what windy con-
fusion of mind, in what squalls of anger and lulls of
sick collapse, in what pacing of streets and plunging
into public-houses, it would profit little to relate.
His misery, if it were not progressive, yet tended
in no way to diminish ; for in proportion as grief
and indignation abated, fear began to take their
place. At first, his father's menacing words lay by
in some safe drawer of memory, biding their hour.
At first, John was all thwarted affection and blighted
hope ; next bludgeoned vanity raised its head again,
with twenty mortal gashes, and the father was dis-
owned even as he had disowned the son. What
was this regular course of life, that John should have
admired it ? what were these clock - work virtues,
from which love was absent? Kindness was the
test, kindness the aim and soul ; and judged by such
a standard, the discarded prodigal — now rapidly
drowning his sorrows and his reason in successive
drams — was a creature of a lovelier morality than
his self-righteous father. Yes, he was the better
man ; he felt it, glowed with the consciousness, and
entering a public-house at the corner of Howard
Place (whither he had somehow wandered) he
pledged his own virtues in a glass — perhaps the
fourth since his dismissal. Of that he knew nothing,

38 TALES AND FANTASIES

keeping no account of what he did or where he
went; and in the general crashing hurry of his
nerves, unconscious of the approach of intoxication.
Indeed, it is a question whether he were really grow-
ing intoxicated, or whether at first the spirits did not
even sober him. For it was even as he drained this
last glass that his father's ambiguous and menacing
words — popping from their hiding-place in memory
— startled him like a hand laid upon his shoulder.
"Crimes, hunted, the gallows." They were ugly
words; in the ears of an innocent man, perhaps
all the uglier ; for if some judicial error were in act
against him, who should set a limit to its grossness
or to how far it might be pushed? Not John,
indeed ; he was no believer in the powers of inno-
cence, his cursed experience pointing in quite other
ways; and his fears, once wakened, grew with every
hour and hunted him about the city streets.

It was, perhaps, nearly nine at night; he had
eaten nothing since lunch, he had drunk a good
deal, and he was exhausted by emotion, when the
thought of Houston came into his head. He turned,
not merely to the man as a friend, but to his house
as a place of refuge. The danger that threatened
him was still so vague that he knew neither what
to fear nor where he might expect it ; but this much
at least seemed undeniable, that a private house was
safer than a public inn. Moved by these counsels,
he turned at once to the Caledonian Station, passed
(not without alarm) into the bright lights of the
approach, redeemed his portmanteau from the cloak-
room, and was soon whirling in a cab along the

JOHN NICHOLSON 39

Glasgow Road. The change of movement and
position, the sight of the lamps twinkling to the
rear, and the smell of damp and mould and rotten
straw which clung about the vehicle, wrought in
him strange alternations of lucidity and mortal giddi-
ness.

" I have been drinking," he discovered ; " I must
go straight to bed, and sleep." And he thanked
Heaven for the drowsiness that came upon his mind
in waves.

From one of these spells he was wakened by the
stoppage of the cab ; and, getting down, found him-
self in quite a country road, the last lamp of the
suburb shining some way below, and the high walls
of a garden rising before him in the dark. The
Lodge (as the place was named) stood, indeed,
»very solitary. To the south it adjoined another
house, but standing in so large a garden as to be
well out of cry; on all other sides, open fields
stretched upward to the woods of Corstorphine Hill,
or backward to the dells of Ravelston, or downward
toward the valley of the Leith. The effect of seclu-
sion was aided by the great height of the garden
walls, which were, indeed, conventual, and, as John
had tested in former days, defied the climbing school-
boy. The lamp of the cab threw a gleam upon the
door and the not brilliant handle of the bell.

" Shall I ring for ye ? " said the cabman, who had
descended from his perch, and was slapping his
chest, for the night was bitter.

" I wish you would," said John, putting his hand
to his brow in one of his accesses of giddiness.

4o TALES AND FANTASIES

The man pulled at the handle, and the clanking
of the bell replied from further in the garden ; twice
and thrice he did it, with sufficient intervals ; in the
great frosty silence of the night the sounds fell sharp
and small.

" Does he expect ye ? " asked the driver, with that
manner of familiar interest that well became his
port- wine face; and when John had told him no,
"Well, then," said the cabman, "if ye'll tak' my
advice of it, we'll just gang back. And that's dis-
interested, mind ye, for my stables are in the Glesgie
Road."

" The servants must hear," said John.

" Hout ! " said the driver. " He keeps no servants
here, man. They're a' in the town house ; I drive
him often ; it's just a kind of a hermitage, this."

"Give me the bell," said John; and he plucked
at it like a man desperate.

The clamour had not yet subsided before they
heard steps upon the gravel, and a voice of singular
nervous irritability cried to them through the door,
"Who are you, and what do you want?"

"Alan," said John, "it's me— it's Fatty — John,
you know. I'm just come home, and I've come to
stay with you."

There was no reply for a moment, and then the
door was opened.

"Get the portmanteau down," said John to the
driver.

" Do nothing of the kind,* said Alan ; and then
to John, "Come in here a moment. I want to
speak to you."

JOHN NICHOLSON 41

John entered the garden, and the door was closed
behind him. A candle stood on the gravel walk,
winking a little in the draughts ; it threw inconstant
sparkles on the clumped holly, struck the light and
darkness to and fro like a veil on Alan's features,
and sent his shadow hovering behind him. All
beyond was inscrutable; and John's dizzy brain
rocked with the shadow. Yet even so, it struck
him that Alan was pale, and his voice, when he
spoke, unnatural.

"What brings you here to-night?" he began. "<I
don't want, God knows, to seem unfriendly ; but I
cannot take you in, Nicholson ; I cannot do it."

"Alan," said John, "you've just got to! You
don't know the mess I'm in ; the governor's turned
me out, and I daren't show my face in an inn,
because they're down on me for murder or some-
thing ! "

" For what ? " cried Alan, starting.

" Murder, I believe/' says John.

" Murder ! " repeated Alan, and passed his hand
over his eyes. " What was that you were saying ? "
he asked again.

" That they were down on me," said John. " I'm
accused of murder, by what I can make out ; and
I've really had a dreadful day of it, Alan, and I can't
sleep on the roadside on a night like this — at least,
not with a portmanteau," he pleaded.

" Hush ! " said Alan, with his head on one side ;
and then, "Did you hear nothing?" he asked.

" No," said John, thrilling, he knew not why, with
communicated terror. " No, I heard nothing; why? "

42 TALES AND FANTASIES

And then, as there was no answer, he reverted to fcis
pleading : " But I say, Alan, you've just got to take
me in. I'll go right away to bed if you have any-
thing to do. I seem to have been drinking ; I was
that knocked over. I wouldn't turn you away, Alan,
if you were down on your luck."

11 No ? " returned Alan. " Neither will I you, then.
Come and let's get your portmanteau."

The cabman was paid, and drove off down the
long, lamp-lighted hill, and the two friends stood
on the side-walk beside the portmanteau till the
last rumble of the wheels had died in silence. It
seemed to John as though Alan attached importance
to this departure of the cab; and John, who was
in no state to criticise, shared profoundly in the
feeling.

When the stillness was once more perfect, Alan
shouldered the portmanteau, carried it in, and shut
and locked the garden door; and then, once more,
abstraction seemed to fall upon him, and he stood
with his hand on the key, until the cold began to
nibble at John's fingers.

" Why are we standing here ? " asked John.

"Eh?" said Alan blankly.

"Why, man, you don't seem yourself," said the
other.

"No, I'm not myself," said Alan; and he sat
down on the portmanteau and put his face in his
hands.

John stood beside him swaying a little, and look-
ing about him at the swaying shadows, the flitting
sparkles, and the steady stars overhead, until the

JOHN NICHOLSON 43

windless cold began to touch him through his clothes
on the bare skin. Even in his bemused intelligence,
wonder began to awake,

" I say, let's come on to the house," he said at
last.

" Yes, let's come on to the house," repeated Alan.

And he rose at once, reshouldered the portman-
teau, and taking the candle in his other hand, moved
forward to the Lodge. This was a long, low build-
ing, smothered in creepers; and now, except for
some chinks of light between the dining-roofn shutters,
it was plunged in darkness and silence.

In the hall Alan lighted another candle, gave it to
John, and opened the door of a bedroom.

"Here," said he; "go to bed. Don't mind me,
John. You'll be sorry for me when you know."

"Wait a bit," returned John; "I've got so cold
with all that standing about. Let's go into the
dining-room a minute. Just one glass to warm me,
Alan."

On the table in the hall stood a glass, and a
bottle with a whisky laoel on a tray. It was plain
the bottle had been just opened, for the cork and
corkscrew lay beside it.

"Take that," said Alan, passing John the whisky,
and then with a certain roughness pushed his
friend into the bedroom, and closed the door behind
him.

John stood amazed; then he shook the bottle,
and, to his further wonder, found it partly empty.
Three or four glasses were gone. Alan must have
uncorked a bottle of whisky and drunk three 01

44 TALES AND FANTASIES

four glasses one after the other, without sitting down,
for there was no chair, and that in his own cold
lobby on this freezing night! It fully explained
his eccentricities, John reflected sagely, as he mixed
himself a grog. Poor Alan ! He was drunk ; and
what a dreadful thing was drink, and what a slave
to it poor Alan was, to drink in this unsociable,
uncomfortable fashion ! The man who would drink
alone, except for health's sake — as John was now
doing — was a man utterly lost. He took the grog
out, and felt hazier, but warmer. It was hard work
opening the portmanteau and finding his night
things; and before he was undressed, the cold had
struck home to him once more. "Well," said he;
"just a drop more. There's no sense in getting ill
with all this other trouble." And presently dream-
less slumber buried him.

When John awoke it was day. The low winter
sun was already in the heavens, but his watch had
stopped, and it was impossible to tell the hour
exactly. Ten, he guessed it, and made haste to
dress, dismal reflections crowding on his mind. But
it was less from terror than from regret that he now
suffered; and with his regret there were mingled
cutting pangs of penitence. There had fallen upon
him a blow, cruel, indeed, but yet only the punish-
ment of old misdoing; and he had rebelled and
plunged into fresh sin. The rod had been used
to chasten, and he had bit the chastening fingers.
His father was right ; John had justified him ; John
was no guest for decent people's houses, and no
fit associate for decent people's children. And had

JOHN NICHOLSON 45

a broader hint been needed, there was the case of
his old friend. John was no drunkard, though he
could at times exceed ; and the picture of Houston
drinking neat spirits at his hall-table struck him
with something like disgust. He hung back from
meeting his old friend. He could have wished he
had not come to him ; and yet, even now, where else
was he to turn?

These musings occupied him while he dressed,
and accompanied him into the lobby of the house.
The door stood open on the garden ; doubtless, Alan
had stepped forth ; and John did as he supposed his
friend had done. The ground was hard as iron, the
frost still rigorous ; as he brushed among the hollies,
icicles jingled and glittered in their fall ; and wherever
he went, a volley of eager sparrows followed him.
Here were Christmas weather and Christmas morn-
ing duly met, to the delight of children. This
was the day of reunited families, the day to which
he had so long looked forward, thinking to awake
in his own bed in Randolph Crescent, reconciled
with all men and repeating the footprints of his
youth ; and here he was alone, pacing the alleys of
a wintry garden and filled with penitential thoughts.

And that reminded him : why was he alone ? and
where was Alan ? The thought of the festal morning
and the due salutations reawakened his desire for
his friend, and he began to call for him by name.
As the sound of his voice died away, he was aware
of the greatness of the silence that environed him.
But for the twittering of the sparrows and the crunch-
ing of his own feet upon the frozen snow, the whole

46 TALES AND FANTASIES

windless world of air hung over him entranced, ana
the stillness weighed upon his mind with a horror of
solitude.

Still calling at intervals, but now with a moderated
voice, he made the hasty circuit of the garden, and
finding neither man nor trace of man in all its ever-
green coverts, turned at last to the house. About
the house the silence seemed to deepen strangely.
The door, indeed, stood open as before ; but the
windows were still shuttered, the chimneys breathed
no stain into the bright air, there sounded abroad
none of that low stir (perhaps audible rather to the
ear of the spirit than to the ear of the flesh) by which
a house announces and betrays its human lodgers.
And yet Alan must be there — Alan locked in drunken
slumbers, forgetful of the return of day, of the holy
season, and of the friend whom he had so coldly re-
ceived and was now so churlishly neglecting. John's
disgust redoubled at the thought ; but hunger was
beginning to grow stronger than repulsion, and as
a step to breakfast, if nothing else, he must find
and arouse this sleeper.

He made the circuit of the bedroom quarters.
All, until he came to Alan's chamber, were locked
from without, and bore the marks of a prolonged
disuse. But Alan's was a room in commission, filled
with clothes, knick-knacks, letters, books, and the
conveniences of a solitary man. The fire had been
lighted ; but it had long ago burned out, and the
ashes were stone cold. The bed had been made,
but it had not been slept in.

Worse and worse, then ; Alan must have fallen

JOHN NICHOLSON 47

where ne sat, and now sprawled brutishly, no doubt,
upon the dining-room floor.

The dining-room was a very long apartment, and
was reached through a passage ; so that John, upon
his entrance, brought but little light with him, and
must move toward the windows with spread arms,
groping and knocking on the furniture. Suddenly
he tripped and fell his length over a prostrate body.
It was what he had looked for, yet it shocked him ;
and he marvelled that so rough an impact should not
have kicked a groan out of the drunkard. Men had
killed themselves ere now in such excesses, a dreary
and degraded end that made John shudder. What if
Alan were dead ? There would be a Christmas-day !

By this, John had his hand upon the shutters, and
flinging them back, beheld once again the blessed
face of the day. Even by that light the room had a
discomfortable air. The chairs were scattered, and
one had been overthrown ; the table-cloth, laid as if
for dinner, was twitched upon one side, and some of
the dishes had fallen to the floor. Behind the table
lay the drunkard, still unaroused, only one foot visible
to John.

But now that light was in the room, the worst
seemed over ; it was a disgusting business, but not
more than disgusting ; and it was with no great ap-
prehension that John proceeded to make the circuit
of the table : his last comparatively tranquil moment
for that day. No sooner had he turned the corner,
no sooner had his eyes alighted on the body, than
he gave a smothered, breathless cry, and fled out of
the room and out of the house.

48 TALES AND FANTASIES

It was not Alan who lay there, but a man well up
in years, of stern countenance and iron-grey locks ;
and it was no drunkard, for the body lay in a black
pool of blood, and the open eyes stared upon the
ceiling.

To and fro walked John before the door. The
extreme sharpness of the air acted on his nerves like
an astringent, and braced them swiftly. Presently,
he not relaxing in his disordered walk, the images
began to come clearer and stay longer in his fancy ;
and next the power of thought came back to him,
and the horror and danger of his situation rooted
him to the ground.

He grasped his forehead, and staring on one spot
of gravel, pieced together what he knew and what he
suspected. Alan had murdered some one : possibly
" that man " against whom the butler chained the
door in Regent Terrace ; possibly another ; some
one at least : a human soul, whom it was death to
slay and whose blood lay spilled upon the floor.
This was the reason of the whisky-drinking in the
passage, of his unwillingness to welcome John, of his
strange behaviour and bewildered words; this was
why he had started at and harped upon the name
of murder ; this was why he had stood and hearkened,
or sat and covered his eyes, in the black night. And
now he was gone, now he had basely fled ; and to all
his perplexities and dangers John stood heir.

"Let me think— let me think," he said, aloud, im-
patiently, even pleadingly, as if to some merciless
interrupter. In the turmoil of his wits, a thousand
hints and hopes and threats and terrors dinning con-

JOHN NICHOLSON 49

tinuously in his ears, he was like one plunged in the
hubbub of a crowd. How was he to remember —
he, who had not a thought to spare — that he was
himself the author, as well as the theatre, of so much
confusion ? But in hours of trial the junto of man's
nature is dissolved, and anarchy succeeds.

It was plain he must stay no longer where he was,
for here was a new Judicial Error in the very making.
It was not so plain where he must go, for the old
Judicial Error, vague as a cloud, appeared to fill the
habitable world ; whatever it might be, it watched for
him, full-grown, in Edinburgh ; it must have had its
birth in San Francisco ; it stood guard, no doubt, like
a dragon, at the bank where he should cash his credit ;
and though there were doubtless many other places,
who should say in which of them it was not ambushed?
No, he could not tell where he was to go ; he must not
lose time on these insolubilities. Let him go back to
the beginning. It was plain he must stay no longer
where he was. It was plain, too, that he must not flee
as he was, for he could not carry his portmanteau,
and to flee and leave it was to plunge deeper in the
mire. He must go, leave the house unguarded, find
a cab, and return — return after an absence ? Had he
courage for that ?

And just then he spied a stain about a hand's-
breadth on his trouser-leg, and reached his finger
down to touch it. The finger was stained red : it
was blood ; he stared upon it with disgust, and awe,
and terror, and in the sharpness of the new sensation,
fell instantly to act.

He cleansed his finger in the snow, returned into

D

50 TALES AND FANTASIES

the house, drew near with hushed footsteps to the
dining-room door, and shut and locked it. Then
he breathed a little freer, for here at least was an
oaken barrier between himself and what he feared.
Next, he hastened to his room, tore off the spotted
trousers which seemed in his eyes a link to bind
him to the gallows, flung them in a corner, donned
another pair, breathlessly crammed his night things
into his portmanteau, locked it, swung it with an
effort from the ground, and with a rush of relief
came forth again under the open heavens.

The portmanteau, being of occidental build, was
no feather-weight; it had distressed the powerful
Alan; and as for John, he was crushed under its
bulk, and the sweat broke upon him thickly. Twice
he must set it down to rest before he reached the
gate ; and when he had come so far, he must do as
Alan did, and take his seat upon one corner. Here,
then, he sat a while and panted; but now his
thoughts were sensibly lightened ; now, with the
trunk standing just inside the door, some part of
his dissociation from the house of crime had been
effected, and the cabman need not pass the garden
wall. It was wonderful how that relieved him ; for
the house, in his eyes, was a place to strike the most
cursory beholder with suspicion, as though the very
windows had cried murder.

But there was to be no remission of the strokes of
fate. As he thus sat, taking breath in the shadow of
the wall and hopped about by sparrows, it chanced
that his eye roved to the fastening of the door ; and
what he saw plucked him to his feet. The thing

JOHN NICHOLSON 51

locked with a spring ; once the door was closed, the
bolt shut of itself ; and without a key, there was no
means of entering from without.

He saw himself obliged to one of two distasteful
and perilous alternatives ; either to shut the door
altogether and set his portmanteau out upon the
wayside, a wonder to all beholders ; or to leave the
door ajar, so that any thievish tramp or holiday
schoolboy might stray in and stumble on the grisly
secret. To the last, as the least desperate, his mind
inclined ; but he must first insure himself that he
was unobserved. He peered out, and down the long
road ; it lay dead empty. He went to the corner of
the by-road that comes by way of Dean ; there also
not a passenger was stirring. Plainly it was, now or
never, the high tide of his affairs ; and he drew the
door as close as he durst, slipped a pebble in the
chink, and made off downhill to find a cab.

Half-way down a gate opened, and a troop of
Christmas children sallied forth in the most cheerful
humour, followed more soberly by a smiling mother.

11 And this is Christmas-day ! " thought John ; and
could have laughed aloud in tragic bitterness of heart.

CHAPTER VII

A TRAGI-COMEDY IN A CAB

IN front of Donaldson's Hospital, John counted it
good fortune to perceive a cab a great way off, and
by much shouting and waving of his arm, to catch
the notice of the driver. He counted it good

52 TALES AND FANTASIES

fortune, for the time was long to him till he should
have done for ever with the Lodge ; and the further
he must go to find a cab, the greater the chance that
the inevitable discovery had taken place, and that
he should return to find the garden full of angry
neighbours. Yet when the vehicle drew up he was
sensibly chagrined to recognise the port-wine cab-
man of the night before. " Here," he could not but
reflect, " here is another link in the Judicial Error."

The driver, on the other hand, was pleased to drop
again upon so liberal a fare ; and as he was a man
— the reader must already have perceived — of easy,
not to say familiar, manners, he dropped at once
into a vein of friendly talk, commenting on the
weather, on the sacred season, which struck him
chiefly in the light of a day of liberal gratuities, on
the chance which had reunited him to a pleasing
customer, and on the fact that John had been (as
he was pleased to call it) visibly " on the randan "
the night before.

"And ye look dreidful bad the-day, sir, I must
say that," he continued. "There's nothing like a
dram for ye — if ye'll take my advice of it ; and bein'
as it's Christmas, I'm no' saying," he added, with a
fatherly smile, " but what I would join ye mysel'."

John had listened with a sick heart.

"I'll give you a dram when we've got through,"
said he, affecting a sprightliness which sat on him
most unhandsomely, "and not a drop till then.
Business first, and pleasure afterward."

With this promise the jarvey was prevailed upon
to clamber to his place and drive, with hideous

JOHN NICHOLSON 53

deliberation, to the door of the Lodge. There were
no signs as yet of any public emotion _, only, two
men stood not far off in talk, and their presence,
seen from afar, set John's pulses buzzing. He might
have spared himself his fright, for the pair were lost
in some dispute of a theological complexion, and
with lengthened upper lip and enumerating fingers,
pursued the matter of their difference, and paid no
heed to John.

But the cabman proved a thorn in the flesh.
Nothing would keep him on his perch; he must
clamber down, comment upon the pebble in the
door (which he regarded as an ingenious but unsafe
device), help John with the portmanteau, and en-
liven matters with a flow of speech, and especially
of questions, which I thus condense : —

"He'll no' be here himsel', will he? No? Well,
he's an eccentric man — a fair oddity — if ye ken the
expression. Great trouble with his tenants, they
tell me. I've driven the fam'ly for years. I drove
a cab at his father's waddin'. What'll your name
be? — I should ken your face. Baigrey, ye say?
There were Baigreys about Gilmerton ; ye'll be one
of that lot? Then this'll be a friend's portmantie,
like? Why? Because the name upon it's Nuchol-
son! Oh, if ye're in a hurry, that's another job.
Waverley Brig ? Are ye for away ? "

So the friendly toper prated and questioned and
kept John's heart in a flutter. But to this also, as
to other evils under the sun, there came a period ;
and the victim of circumstances began at last to
rumble toward the railway terminus at Waverley

54 TALES AND FANTASIES

Bridge. During the transit, he sat with raised glasses
in the frosty chill and mouldy fetor of his chariot,
and glanced out sidelong on the holiday face of
things, the shuttered shops, and the crowds along
the pavement, much as the rider in the Tyburn cart
may have observed the concourse gathering to his
execution.

At the station his spirits rose again ; another stage
of his escape was fortunately ended — he began to
spy blue water. He called a railway porter, and
bade him carry the portmanteau to the cloak-room :
not that he had any notion of delay ; flight, instant
flight was his design, no matter whither ; but he had
determined to dismiss the cabman ere he named, or
even chose, his destination, thus possibly balking the
Judicial Error of another link. This was his cunning
aim, and now with one foot on the roadway, and
one still on the coach-step, he made haste to put
the thing in practice, and plunged his hand into his
trousers pocket.

There was nothing there !

Oh yes ; this time he was to blame. He should
have remembered, and when he deserted his blood-
stained pantaloons, he should not have deserted
along with them his purse. Make the most of his
error, and then compare it with the punishment!
Conceive his new position, for I lack words to
picture it; conceive him condemned to return to
that house, from the very thought of which his soul
revolted, and once more to expose himself to capture
on the very scene of the misdeed: conceive him
linked to the mouldy cab and the familiar cabman.

JOHN NICHOLSON 55

John cursed the cabman silently, and then it occurred
to him that he must stop the incarceration of his
portmanteau; that, at least, he must keep close at
hand, and he turned to recall the porter. But his
reflections, brief as they had appeared, must have
occupied him longer than he supposed, and there
was the man already returning with the receipt.

Well, that was settled ; he had lost his portman-
teau also ; for the sixpence with which he had paid
the Murrayfield Toll was one that had strayed alone
into his waistcoat pocket, and unless he once more
successfully achieved the adventure of the house of
crime, his portmanteau lay in the cloak-room in
eternal pawn, for lack of a penny fee. And then
he remembered the porter, who stood suggestively
attentive, words of gratitude hanging on his lips.

John hunted right and left; he found a coin —
prayed God that it was a sovereign — drew it out,
beheld a halfpenny, and offered it to the porter.

The man's jaw dropped.

" It's only a halfpenny ! " he said, startled out of
railway decency.

" I know that," said John piteously.

And here the porter recovered the dignity of man.

"Thank you, sir," said he, and would have re-
turned the base gratuity. But John, too, would
none of it ; and as they struggled, who must join
in but the cabman.

" Hoots, Mr. Baigrey," said he, " you surely forget
what day it is ! "

" I tell you I have no change ! " cried John.

"Well," said the driver, "and what then? I

56 TALES AND FANTASIES

would rather give a man a shillin' on a day like this
than put him off with a derision like a bawbee. I'm
surprised at the like of you, Mr. Baigrey ! "

" My name is not Baigrey ! " broke out John, in
mere childish temper and distress.

" Ye told me it was yoursel'," said the cabman.

" I know I did ; and what the devil right had you
to ask ? " cried the unhappy one.

" Oh, very well," said the driver. ""l know my
place, if you know yours — if you know yours ! " he
repeated, as one who should imply grave doubt ; and
muttered inarticulate thunders, in which the grand
old name of gentleman was taken seemingly in vain.

Oh to have been able to discharge this monster,
whom John now perceived, with tardy clear-sighted-
ness, to have begun betimes the festivities of Christ-
mas ! But far from any such ray of consolation
visiting the lost, he stood bare of help and helpers,
his portmanteau sequestered in one place, his money
deserted in another and guarded by a corpse ; him-
self, so sedulous of privacy, the cynosure of all men's
eyes about the station; and, as if these were not
enough mischances, he was now fallen in ill-blood
with the beast to whom his poverty had linked him !
In ill-blood, as he reflected dismally, with the witness
who perhaps might hang or save him ! There was
no time to be lost ; he durst not linger any longer in
that public spot; and whether he had recourse to
dignity or conciliation, the remedy must be applied
at once. Some happily surviving element of man-
hood moved him to the former.

" Let us have no more of this," said he, his foot

JOHN NICHOLSON 57

once more upon the step. " Go back to where we
came from."

He had avoided the name of any destination, for
there was now quite a little band of railway folk
about the cab, and he still kept an eye upon the
court of justice, and laboured to avoid concentric
evidence. But here again the fatal jarvey out-
manoeuvred him.

" Back to the Ludge ? " cried he, in shrill tones of
protest.

" Drive on at once ! " roared John, and slammed
the door behind him, so that the crazy chariot rocked
and jingled.

Forth trundled the cab into the Christmas streets,
the fare within plunged in the blackness of a despair
that neighboured on unconsciousness, the driver on
the box digesting his rebuke and his customer's
duplicity. I would not be thought to put the pair
in competition ; John's case was out of all parallel.
But the cabman, too, is worth the sympathy of the
judicious; for he was a fellow of genuine kindli-
ness and a high sense of personal dignity incensed
by drink ; and his advances had been cruelly and
publicly rebuffed. As he drove, therefore, he counted
his wrongs, and thirsted for sympathy and drink.
Now, it chanced he had a friend, a publican in
Queensferry Street, from whom, in view of the sacred-
ness of the occasion, he thought he might extract
a dram. Queensferry Street lies something off the
direct road to Murrayfield. But then there is the
hilly cross-road that passes by the valley of the Leith
and the Dean Cemetery; and Queensferry Street is

58 TALES AND FANTASIES

on the way to that. What was to hinder the cabman,
since his horse was dumb, from choosing the cross-
road, and calling on his friend in passing? So it
was decided ; and the charioteer, already somewhat
mollified, turned aside his horse to the right.

John, meanwhile, sat collapsed, his chin sunk
upon his chest, his mind in abeyance. The smell
of the cab was still faintly present to' his senses, and
a certain leaden chill about his feet; all else had
disappeared in one vast oppression of calamity and
physical faintness. It was drawing on to noon —
two-and-twenty hours since he had broken bread;
in the interval, he had suffered tortures of sorrow
and alarm, and been partly tipsy ; and though it was
impossible to say he slept, yet when the cab stopped
and the cabman thrust his head into the window, his
attention had to be recalled from depths of vacancy.

" If you'll no' stand me a dram," said the driver,
with a well-merited severity of tone and manner,
" I dare say ye'll have no objection to my taking one
mysel' ? "

".Yes — no — do what you like," returned John;
and then, as he watched his tormentor mount the
stairs and enter the whisky-shop, there floated into
his mind a sense as of something long ago familiar.
At that he started fully awake, and stared at the
shop-fronts. Yes, he knew them; but when? and
how? Long since, he thought; and then, casting
his eye through the front glass, which had been
recently occluded by the figure of the jarvey, he
beheld the tree-tops of the rookery in Randolph
Crescent. He was close to home — home, where he

JOHN NICHOLSON 59

had thought, at that hour, to be sitting in the well-
remembered drawing-room in friendly converse ; and,
instead !

It was his first impulse to drop into the bottom
of the cab; his next, to cover his face with his
hands. So he sat, while the cabman toasted the
publican, and the publican toasted the cabman, and
both reviewed the affairs of the nation; so he still
sat, when his master condescended to return, and
drive off at last downhill, along the curve of Lyne-
doch Place; but even so sitting, as he passed the
end of his father's street, he took one glance from
between shielding fingers, and beheld a doctor's
carriage at the door.

" Well, just so," thought he ; " I'll have killed my
father ! And this is Christmas-day ! "

If Mr. Nicholson died, it was down this same
road he must journey to the grave ; and down this
road, on the same errand, his wife had preceded
him years before; and many other leading citizens,
with the proper trappings and attendance of the end.
And now, in that frosty, ill-smelling, straw-carpeted,
and ragged-cushioned cab, with his breath congeal-
ing on the glasses, where else was John himself
advancing to?

The thought stirred his imagination, which began
to manufacture many thousand pictures, bright and
fleeting, like the shapes in a kaleidoscope ; and now
he saw himself, ruddy and comfortered, sliding in
the gutter; and, again, a little woe-begone, bored
urchin tricked forth in crape and weepers, descend-
ing this same hill at the foot's pace of mourning

60 TALES AND FANTASIES

coaches, his mother's body just preceding him ; and
yet again, his fancy, running far in front, showed
him his destination — now standing solitary in the
low sunshine, with the sparrows hopping on the
threshold and the dead man within staring at the
roof — and now, with a sudden change, thronged
about with white-faced, hand-uplifting neighbours,
and doctor bursting through their midst and fixing
his stethoscope as he went, the policeman shaking a
sagacious head beside the body. It was to this he
feared that he was driving ; in the midst of this he
saw himself arrive, heard himself stammer faint
explanations, and felt the hand of the constable
upon his shoulder. Heavens ! how he wished he
had played the manlier part ; how he despised him-
self that he had fled that fatal neighbourhood when
all was quiet, and should now be tamely travelling
back when it was thronging with avengers !

Any strong degree of passion lends, even to the
dullest, the forces of the imagination. And so now
as he dwelt on what was probably awaiting him at
the end of this distressful drive — John, who saw
things little, remembered them less, and could not
have described them at all, beheld in his mind's-eye
the garden of the Lodge, detailed as in a map ; he
went to and fro in it, feeding his terrors; he sav
the hollies, the snowy borders, the paths where hr
had sought Alan, the high, conventual walls, the
shut door — what ! was the door shut ? Ay, truly,
he had shut it — shut in his money, his escape,
his future life — shut it with these hands, and none
could now open it! He heard the snap of the

JOHN NICHOLSON 61

spring-lock like something bursting in his brain, and
sat astonied.

And then he woke again, terror jarring through
his vitals. This was no time to be idle ; he must be
up and doing, he must think. Once at the end of
this ridiculous cruise, once at the Lodge door, there
would be nothing for it but to turn the cab and
trundle back again. Why, then, go so far ? why add
another feature of suspicion to a case already so
suggestive ? why not turn at once ? It was easy to
say, turn; but whither? He had nowhere now to
go to ; he could never — he saw it in letters of blood
— he could never pay that cab ; he was saddled with
that cab for ever. Oh that cab I his soul yearned
and burned, and his bowels sounded to be rid of it.
He forgot all other cares. He must first quit him-
self of this ill-smelling vehicle and of the human
beast that guided it — first do that ; do that, at least ;
do that at once.

And just then the cab suddenly stopped, and there
was his persecutor rapping on the front glass. John
let it down, and beheld the port-wine countenance
inflamed with intellectual triumph.

" I ken wha ye are ! " cried the husky voice. " I
mind ye now. Ye're a Nucholson. I drove ye to
Hermiston to a Christmas party, and ye came back
on the box, and I let ye drive."

It is a fact. John knew the man ; they had been
even friends. His enemy, he now remembered, was
a fellow of great good nature — endless good nature —
with a boy ; why not with a man ? Why not appeal
to his better side ? He grasped at the new hope.

62 TALES AND FANTASIES

" Great Scott ! and so you did," he cried, as if in
a transport of delight, his voice sounding false in his
own ears. "Well, if that's so, I've something to say
to you. I'll just get out, I guess. Where are we,
anyway ? "

The driver had fluttered his ticket in the eyes of
the branch-toll keeper, and they were now brought-
to on the highest and most solitary part of the by-
road. On the left, a row of fieldside trees beshaded
it ; on the right, it was bordered by naked fallows,
undulating downhill to the Queensferry Road; in
front, Corstorphine Hill raised its snow-bedabbled,
darkling woods against the sky. John looked all
about him, drinking the clear air like wine ; then his
eyes returned to the cabman's face as he sat, not
ungleefully, awaiting John's communication, with the
air of one looking to be tipped.

The features of that face were hard to read, drink
had so swollen them, drink had so painted them, in
tints that varied from brick-red to mulberry. The
small grey eyes blinked, the lips moved, with greed ;
greed was the ruling passion ; and though there was
some good nature, some genuine kindliness, a true
human touch, in the old toper, his greed was now
so set afire by hope, that all other traits of char-
acter lay dormant. He sat there a monument of
gluttonous desire.

John's heart slowly fell. He had opened his lips,
but he stood there and uttered nought. He sounded
the well of his courage, and it was dry. He groped
in his treasury of words, and it was vacant. A devil
of dumbness had him by the throat; the devil of

JOHN NICHOLSON 63

terror babbled in his ears ; and suddenly, without a
word uttered, with no conscious purpose formed in his
will, John whipped about, tumbled over the roadside
wall, and began running for his life across the fallows.

He had not gone far, he was not past the midst of
the first field, when his whole brain thundered within
him, "Fool! You have your watch!" The shock
stopped him, and he faced once more toward the
cab. The driver was leaning over the wall, brandish-
ing his whip, his face empurpled, roaring like a bull.
And John saw (or thought) that he had lost the
chance. No watch would pacify the man's resent-
ment now ; he would cry for vengeance also. John
would be had under the eye of the police ; his tale
would be unfolded, his secret plumbed, his destiny
would close on him at last, and for ever.

He uttered a deep sigh ; and just as the cabman,
taking heart of grace, was beginning at last to scale
the wall, his defaulting customer fell again to running,
and disappeared into the further fields.

CHAPTER VIII

SINGULAR INSTANCE OF THE UTILITY OF
PASS-KEYS

WHERE he ran at first, John never very clearly knew ;
nor yet how long a time elapsed ere he found him-
self in the by-road near the lodge of Ravelston,
propped against the wall, his lungs heaving like
bellows, his legs leaden-heavy, his mind possessed

64 TALES AND FANTASIES

by one sole desire — to lie down and be unseen. He
remembered the thick coverts round the quarry-hole
pond, an untrodden corner of the world where he
might surely find concealment till the night should
fall. Thither he passed down the lane; and when
he came there, behold! he had forgotten the frost,
and the pond was alive with young people skating,
and the pond-side coverts were thick with lookers-
on. He looked on a while himself. There was one
tall, graceful maiden, skating hand in hand with a
youth, on whom she bestowed her bright eyes perhaps
too patently ; and it was strange with what anger John
beheld her. He could have broken forth in curses ;
he could have stood there, like a mortified tramp,
and shaken his fist and vented his gall upon her by
the hour — or so he thought ; and the next moment
his heart bled for the girl. " Poor creature, it's little
she knows ! " he sighed. " Let her enjoy herself
while she can ! " But was it possible, when Flora
used to smile at him on the Braid ponds, she could
have looked so fulsome to a sick-hearted bystander ?
The thought of one quarry, in his frozen wits,
suggested another ; and he plodded off toward Craig-
leith. A wind had sprung up out of the north-west ;
it was cruel keen, it dried him like a fire, and racked
his finger-joints. It brought clouds, too; pale,
swift, hurrying clouds, that blotted heaven and shed
gloom upon the earth. He scrambled up among
the hazelled rubbish heaps that surround the caldron
of the quarry, and lay flat upon the stones. The
wind searched close along the earth, the stones were
cutting and icy, the bare hazels wailed about him ,

JOHN NICHOLSON 65

and soon the air of the afternoon began to be vocal
with those strange and dismal harpings that herald
snow. Pain and misery turned in John's limbs to a
harrowing impatience and blind desire of change ;
now he would roll in his harsh lair, and when the
flints abraded him, was almost pleased ; now he would
crawl to the edge of the huge pit and look dizzily down.
He saw the spiral of the descending roadway, the
steep crags, the clinging bushes, the peppering of
snow-wreaths, and, far down in the bottom, the
diminished crane. Here, no doubt, was a -way to
end it. But it somehow did not take his fancy.

And suddenly he was aware that he was hungry ;
ay, even through the tortures of the cold, even through
the frosts of despair, a gross, desperate longing after
food, no matter what, no matter how, began to wake
and spur him. Suppose he pawned his watch?
But no, on Christmas-day — this was Christmas-day !
— the pawnshop would be closed. Suppose he went
to the public-house close by at Blackball, and offered
the watch, which was worth ten pounds, in payment
for a meal of bread and cheese ? The incongruity
was too remarkable ; the good folks would either
put him to the door, or only let him in to send for
the police. He turned his pockets out one after
another; some San Francisco tram-car checks, one
cigar, no lights, the pass-key to his father's house, a
pocket-handkerchief, with just a touch of scent : no,
money could be raised on none of these. There
was nothing for it but to starve ; and after all, what
mattered it ? That also was a door of exit.

He crept close among the bushes, the wind playing

66 TALES AND FANTASIES

round him like a lash; his clothes seemed thin as
paper, his joints burned, his skin curdled on his
bones. He had a vision of a high-lying cattle-drive
in California, and the bed of a dried stream with one
muddy pool, by which the vaqueros had encamped :
splendid sun over all, the big bonfire blazing, the
strips of cow browning and smoking on a skewer of
wood ; how warm it was, how savoury the steam of
scorching meat ! And then again he remembered
his manifold calamities, and burrowed and wallowed
in the sense of his disgrace and shame. And next
he was entering Frank's restaurant in Montgomery
Street, San Francisco ; he had ordered a pan-stew
and venison chops, of which he was immoderately
fond, and as he sat waiting, Munroe, the good at-
tendant, brought him a whisky punch; he saw the
strawberries float on the delectable cup, he heard
the ice chink about the straws. And then he woke
again to his detested fate, and found himself sitting,
humped together, in a windy combe of quarry refuse —
darkness thick about him, thin flakes of snow flying
here and there like rags of paper, and the strong shud-
dering of his body clashing his teeth like a hiccough.
We have seen John in nothing but the stormiest
condition ; we have seen him reckless, desperate,
tried beyond his moderate powers ; of his daily self,
cheerful, regular, not unthrifty, we have seen nothing ;
and it may thus be a surprise to the reader to learn
that he was studiously careful of his health. This
favourite preoccupation now awoke. If he were to
sit there and die of cold, there would be mighty little
gained; better the police cell and the chances of a

JOHN NICHOLSON 67

jury trial, than the miserable certainty of death at
a dyke-side before the next winter's dawn, or death a
little later in the gas-lighted wards of an infirmary.

He rose on aching legs, and stumbled here and
there among the rubbish heaps, still circumvented by
the yawning crater of the quarry ; or perhaps he only
thought so, for the darkness was already dense, the
snow was growing thicker, and he moved like a
blind man, and with a blind man's terrors. At
last he climbed a fence, thinking to drop into the
road, and found himself staggering, instead, among
the iron furrows of a ploughland, endless, it seemed,
as a whole county. And next he was in a wood,
beating among young trees ; and then he was aware
of a house with many lighted windows, Christmas
carriages waiting at the doors, and Christmas drivers
(for Christmas has a double edge) becoming swiftly
hooded with snow. From this glimpse of human
cheerfulness, he fled like Cain ; wandered in the
night, unpiloted, careless of whither he went; fell,
and lay, and then rose again and wandered further ;
and at last, like a transformation scene, behold him
in the lighted jaws of the city, staring at a lamp which
had already donned the tilted night-cap of the snow.
It came thickly now, a " Feeding Storm " ; and while
he yet stood blinking at the lamp, his feet were buried.
He remembered something like it in the past, a street-
lamp crowned and caked upon the windward side
with snow, the wind uttering its mournful hoot, him-
self looking on, even as now ; but the cold had struck
too sharply on his wits, and memory failed him as to
the date and sequel of the reminiscence.

68 TALES AND FANTASIES

His next conscious moment was on the Dean
Bridge; but whether he was John Nicholson of a
bank in a California street, or some former John, a
clerk in his father's office, he had now clean forgotten.
Another blank, and he was thrusting his pass-key into
the door-lock of his father's house.

Hours must have passed. Whether crouched on
the cold stones or wandering in the fields among the
snow, was more than he could tell; but hours had
passed. The finger of the hall-clock was close on
twelve; a narrow peep of gas in the hall-lamp shed
shadows ; and the door of the back room — his father's
room — was open and emitted a warm light. At so
late an hour, all this was strange ; the lights should
have been out, the doors locked, the good folk safe in
bed. He marvelled at the irregularity, leaning on
the hall-table ; and marvelled to himself there ; and
thawed and grew once more hungry, in the warmer air
of the house.

The clock uttered its premonitory catch ; in five
minutes Christmas-day would be among the days of
the past — Christmas ! — what a Christmas ! Well,
there was no use waiting; he had come into that
house, he scarce knew how; if they were to thrust
him forth again, it had best be done at once ; and he
moved to the door of the back room and entered.

Oh, well, then he was insane, as he had long
believed.

There, in his father's room, at midnight, the fire
was roaring and the gas blazing; the papers, the
sacred papers — to lay a hand on which was criminal
— had all been taken off and piled along the floor ; a

JOHN NICHOLSON 69

cloth was spread, and a supper laid, upon the busi-
ness table ; and in his father's chair a woman, habited
like a nun, sat eating. As he appeared in the door-
way, the nun rose, gave a low cry, and stood staring.
She was a large woman, strong, calm, a little mascu-
line, her features marked with courage and good
sense; and as John blinked back at her, a faint
resemblance dodged about his memory, as when a
tune haunts us, and yet will not be recalled.

" Why, it's John ! " cried the nun.

" I dare say I'm mad," said John, unconsciously
following King Lear; "but, upon my word, I do
believe you're Flora."

" Of course I am," replied she.

And yet it is not Flora at all, thought John ; Flora
was slender, and timid, and of changing colour, and
dewy-eyed ; and had Flora such an Edinburgh accent ?
But he said none of these things, which was perhaps
as well. What he said was, " Then why are you a nun? "

" Such nonsense ! " said Flora. " I'm a sick-nurse ;
and I am here nursing your sister, with whom, between
you and me, there is precious little the matter. But
that is not the question. The point is: How do
you come here ? and are you not ashamed to show
yourself?"

11 Flora," said John sepulchrally, " I haven't eaten
anything for three days. Or, at least, I don't know
what day it is ; but I guess I'm starving."

" You unhappy man ! '' she cried. " Here, sit
down and eat my supper ; and I'll just run upstairs
and see my patient ; not but what I doubt she's fast
asleep, for Maria is a malade imaginairc"

7o TALES AND FANTASIES

With this specimen of the French, not of Stratford-
atte-Bowe, but of a finishing establishment in Moray
Place, she left John alone in his father's sanctum.
He fell at once upon the food ; and it is to be sup-
posed that Flora had found her patient wakeful, and
been detained with some details of nursing, for he
had time to make a full end of all there was to eat,
and not only to empty the teapot, but to fill it again
from a kettle that was fitfully singing on his father's
fire. Then he sat torpid, and pleased, and bewildered;
his misfortunes were then half forgotten ; his mind
considering, not without regret, this unsentimental
return to his old love.

He was thus engaged, when that bustling woman
noiselessly re-entered.

" Have you eaten ? " said she. " Then tell me all
about it."

It was a long and (as the reader knows) a pitiful
story ; but Flora heard it with compressed lips. She
was lost in none of those questionings of human destiny
that have, from time to time, arrested the flight of
my own pen ; for women, such as she, are no philo-
sophers, and behold the concrete only. And women,
such as she, are very hard on the imperfect man.

"Very well," said she, when he had done; "then
down upon your knees at once, and beg God's for-
giveness."

And the great baby plumped upon his knees, and
did as he was bid; and none the worse for that!
But while he was heartily enough requesting forgive-
ness on general principles, the rational side of him
distinguished, and wondered if, perhaps, the apology

JOHN NICHOLSON 71

were not due upon the other part. And when he
rose again from that becoming exercise, he first eyed
the face of his old love doubtfully, and then, taking
heart, uttered his protest.

" I must say, Flora," said he, " in all this business,
I can see very little fault of mine."

"If you had written home," replied the lady,
" there would have been none of it. If you had even
gone to Murrayfield reasonably sober, you would
never have slept there, and the worst would not have
happened. Besides, the whole thing began years ago.
You got into trouble, and when your father, honest
man, was disappointed, you took the pet, or got afraid,
and ran away from punishment. Well, you've had
your own way of it, John, and I don't suppose you
like it."

" I sometimes fancy I'm not much better than a
fool," sighed John.

" My dear John," said she, " not much ! "

He looked at her, and his eye fell. A certain anger
rose within him ; here was a Flora he disowned ; she
was hard ; she was of a set colour ; a settled, mature,
undecorative manner ; plain of speech, plain of habit
—he had come near saying, plain of face. And this
changeling called herself by the same name as the
many-coloured, clinging maid of yore; she of the
frequent laughter, and the many sighs, and the kind,
stolen glances. And to make all worse, she took the
upper hand with him, which (as John well knew) was
not the true relation of the sexes. He steeled his
heart against this sick-nurse.

" And how do you come to be here ? " he asked.

72 TALES AND FANTASIES

She told him how she had nursed her father in his
long illness, and when he died, and she was left alone,
had taken to nurse others, partly from habit, partly
to be of some service in the world ; partly, it might
be, for amusement. " There's no accounting for
taste," said she. And she told him how she went
largely to the houses of old friends, as the need
arose; and how she was thus doubly welcome as an
old friend first, and then as an experienced nurse, to
whom doctors would confide the gravest cases.

" And, indeed, it's a mere farce my being here for
poor Maria," she continued ; " but your father takes
her ailments to heart, and I cannot always be refusing
him. We are great friends, your father and I; he
was very kind to me long ago — ten years ago."

A strange stir came in John's heart. All this while
had he been thinking only of himself? All this while,
why had he not written to Flora? In penitential tender-
ness, he took her hand, and, to his awe and trouble,
it remained in his, compliant. A voice told him this
was Flora, after all — told him so quietly, yet with a
thrill of singing.

" And you never married ? " said he.

" No, John ; I never married," she replied.

The hall-clock striking two recalled them to the
sense of time.

"And now," said she, "you have been fed and
warmed, and I have heard your story, and now it's
high time to call your brother."

"Oh!" cried John, chap-fallen; "do you think
that absolutely necessary ? "

" / can't keep you here ; I am a stranger," said she.

JOHN NICHOLSON 73

"Do you want to run away again? I thought you
had enough of that."

He bowed his head under the reproof. She
despised him, he reflected, as he sat once more alone ;
a monstrous thing for a woman to despise a man ;
and strangest of all, she seemed to like him. Would
his brother despise him, too ? And would his brother
like him ?

And presently the brother appeared, under Flora's
escort; and, standing afar off beside the doorway,
eyed the hero of this tale.

" So this is you ? " he said, at length.

" Yes, Alick, it's me — it's John," replied the elder
brother feebly.

"And how did you get in here?" inquired the
younger.

" Oh, I had my pass-key," says John.

"The deuce you had!" said Alexander. "Ah,
you lived in a better world ! There are no pass-keys
going now."

"Well, father was always averse to them," sighed
John. And the conversation then broke down,
and the brothers looked askance at one another in
silence.

"Well, and what the devil are we to do?" said
Alexander. " I suppose if the authorities got wind
of you, you would be taken up? "

" It depends on whether they've found the body or
not," returned John. " And then there's that cab-
man, to be sure ! "

"Oh, bother the body!" said Alexander. "I
mean about the other thing That's serious."

74 TALES AND FANTASIES

"Is that what my father spoke about?" asked
John. " I don't even know what it is."

" About your robbing your bank in California, of
course," replied Alexander.

It was plain, from Flora's face, that this was the
first she had heard of it; it was plainer still, from
John's, that he was innocent.

" I ! " he exclaimed. " I rob my bank ! My God !
Flora, this is too much; even you must allow that."

" Meaning you didn't ? " asked Alexander.

" I never robbed a soul in all my days,'/ cried
John : " except my father, if you call that robbery ;
and I brought him back the money in this room, and
he wouldn't even take it ! "

"Look here, John," said his brother, "let us have
no misunderstanding upon this. Macewen saw my
father ; he told him a bank you had worked for in
San Francisco was wiring over the habitable globe to
have you collared — that it was supposed you had
nailed thousands ; and it was dead certain you had
nailed three hundred. So Macewen said, and I wish
you would be careful how you answer. I may tell
you also, that your father paid the three hundred on
the spot."

" Three hundred ? " repeated John. * c Three hun-
dred pounds, you mean? That's fifteen hundred
dollars. Why, then, it's Kirkman!" he broke out.
"Thank Heaven I I can explain all that. I gave
them to Kirkman to pay for me the night before I
left — fifteen hundred dollars, and a letter to the
manager. What do they suppose I would steal
fifteen hundred dollars for? I'm rich; I struck it

JOHN NICHOLSON 75

rich in stocks. It's the silliest stuff I ever heard of.
All that's needful is to cable to the manager : Kirk-
man has the fifteen hundred — find Kirkman. He
was a fellow-clerk of mine, and a hard case ; but to
do him justice, I didn't think he was as hard as
this."

"And what do you say to that, Alick?'' asked
Flora.

" I say the cablegram shall go to-night ! " cried
Alexander, with energy. " Answer prepaid, too. If
this can be cleared away — and upon my word I do
believe it can — we shall all be able to hold up our
heads again. Here, you John, you stick down the
address of your bank manager. You, Flora, you can
pack John into my bed, for which I have no further
use to-night. As for me, I am off to the post-office,
and thence to the High Street about the dead body.
The police ought to know, you see, and they ought
to know through John; and I can tell them some
rigmarole about my brother being a man of highly
nervous organisation, and the rest of it. And then,
I'll tell you what, John — did you notice the name
upon the cab ? "

John gave the name of the driver, which, as I
have not been able to command the vehicle, I here
suppress.

"Well," resumed Alexander, "111 call round at
their place before I come back, and pay your shot
for you. In that way, before breakfast-time, you'll
be as good as new."

John murmured inarticulate thanks. To see his
brother thus energetic in his service moved him

76 TALES AND FANTASIES

beyond expression; if he could not utter what he
felt, he showed it legibly in his face ; and Alexander
read it there, and liked it the better in that dumb
delivery.

"But there's one thing," said the latter, "cable-
grams are dear; and I dare say you remember
enough of the governor to guess the state of my
finances."

"The trouble is," said John, "that all my stamps
are in that beastly house."

"All your what?" asked Alexander.

" Stamps — money," explained John. " It's an
American expression; I'm afraid I contracted one
or two."

" I have some," said Flora. " I have a pound note
upstairs."

"My dear Flora," returned Alexander, ua pound
note won't see us very far; and besides, this is my
father's business, and I shall be very much surprised
if it isn't my father who pays for it."

" I would not apply to him yet ; I do not think
that can be wise," objected Flora.

"You have a very imperfect idea of my resources,
and not at all of my effrontery," replied Alexander.
"Please observe."

He put John from his way, chose a stout knife
among the supper things, and with surprising quick-
ness broke into his father's drawer.

"There's nothing easier when you come to try,"
he observed, pocketing the money.

"I wish you had not done that," said Flora.
11 You will never hear the last of it."

JOHN NICHOLSON 77

"Oh, I don't know," returned the young man;
11 the governor is human after all. And now, John,
let me see your famous pass-key. Get into bed, and
don't move for any one till I come back. They
won't mind you not answering when they knock ; I
generally don't myself."

CHAPTER IX

IN WHICH MR. NICHOLSON ACCEPTS THE PRINCIPLE
OF AN ALLOWANCE

IN spite of the horrors of the day and the tea-drink-
ing of the night, John slept the sleep of infancy. He
was awakened by the maid, as it might have been ten
years ago, tapping at the door. The winter sunrise
was painting the east ; and as the window was to the
back of the house, it shone into the room with many
strange colours of refracted light. Without, the
houses were all cleanly roofed with snow ; the garden
walls were coped with it a foot in height ; the greens
lay glittering. Yet strange as snow had grown to
John during his years upon the Bay of San Francisco,
it was what he saw within that most affected him.
For it was to his own room that Alexander had been
promoted ; there was the old paper with the device
of flowers, in which a cunning fancy might yet detect
the face of Skinny Jim, of the Academy, John's
former dominie ; there was the old chest of drawers ;
there were the chairs — one, two, three — three as
before. Only the carpet was new, and the litter of

78 TALES AND FANTASIES

Alexander's clothes and books and drawing materials,
and a pencil-drawing on the wall, which (in John's
eyes) appeared a marvel of proficiency.

He was thus lying, and looking, and dreaming,
hanging, as it were, between two epochs of his life,
when Alexander came to the door, and made his
presence known in a loud whisper. John let him in,
and jumped back into the warm bed.

"Well, John," said Alexander, "the cablegram is
sent in your name, and twenty words of answer
paid. I have been to the cab office and paid your
cab, even saw the old gentleman himself, and pro-
perly apologised. He was mighty placable, and
indicated his belief you had been drinking. Then
I knocked up old Macewen out of bed, and explained
affairs to him as he sat and shivered in a dressing-
gown. And before that I had been to the High
Street, where they have heard nothing of your dead
body, so that I incline to the idea that you dreamed
it."

" Catch me ! " said John.

"Well, the police never do know anything,"
assented Alexander; "and, at any rate, they have
despatched a man to inquire and to recover your
trousers and your money, so that really your bill is
now fairly clean ; and I see but one lion in your
path — the governor."

" I'll be turned out again, you'll see," said John
dismally.

"I don't imagine so," returned the other; "not if
you do what Flora and I have arranged ; and your
business now is to dress, and lose no time about it.

JOHN NICHOLSON 79

Is your watch right ? Well, you have a quarter of an
hour. By five minutes before the half-hour you must
be at table, in your old seat, under Uncle Duthie's
picture. Flora will be there to keep you counte-
nance ; and we shall see what we snail see."

"Wouldn't it be wiser for me to stay in bed?"
said John.

" If you mean to manage your own concerns, you
can do precisely what you like," replied Alexander;
" but if you are net in your place five minutes before
the half-hour I wash my hands of you, for one."

And thereupon he departed. He had spoken
warmly, but the truth is, his heart was somewhat
troubled. And as he hung over the balusters, watch-
ing for his father to appear, he had hard ado to keep
himself braced for the encounter that must fallow.

" If he takes it well, I shall be lucky," he reflected.
" If he takes it ill, why it'll be a herring across John's
tracks, and perhaps all for the best. He's a con-
founded muff, this brother of mine, but he seems a
decent soul."

At that stage a door opened below with a certain
emphasis, and Mr. Nicholson was seen solemnly to
descend the stairs, and pass into his own apartment.
Alexander followed, quaking inwardly, but with a
steady face. He knocked, was bidden to enter, and
found his father standing in front of the forced drawer,
to which he pointed as he spoke.

"This is a most extraordinary thing," said he; "I
have been robbed 1 "

" I was afraid you would notice it," observed his
son ; " it made such a beastly hash of the table,"

8o TALES AND FANTASIES

"You were afraid I would notice it?" repeated
Mr. Nicholson. " And, pray, what may that
mean ? "

"That I was a thief, sir," returned Alexander.
" I took all the money in case the servants should
get hold of it ; and here is the change, and a note of
my expenditure. You were gone to bed, you see,
and I did not feel at liberty to knock you up ; but I
think when you have heard the circumstances, you
will do me justice. The fact is, I have reason to
believe there has been some dreadful error about my
brother John; the sooner it can be cleared up the
better for all parties ; it was a piece of business, sir
— and so I took it, and decided, on my own respon-
sibility, to send a telegram to San Francisco. Thanks
to my quickness, we may hear to-night. There appears
to be no doubt, sir, that John has been abominably
used."

" When did this take place ? " asked the father.

"Last night, sir, after you were asleep," was the
reply.

" It's most extraordinary," said Mr. Nicholson.
" Do you mean to say you have been out all night ? "

"All night, as you say, sir. I have been to the
telegraph and the police office, and Mr. Macewen's.
Oh, I had my hands full," said Alexander.

" Very irregular," said the father. "You think of
no one but yourself."

" I do not see that I have much to gain in bring-
ing back my elder brother," returned Alexander
shrewdly.

The answer pleased the old man; he smiled.

JOHN NICHOLSON 81

"Well, well, I will go into this after breakfast,"
said he.

11 I'm sorry about the table," said the son.

" The table is a small matter ; I think nothing of
tiat," said the father.

" It's another example," continued the son, " of
the awkwardness of a man having no money of his
own. If I had a proper allowance, like other
fellows of my age, this would have been quite
unnecessary."

"A proper allowance!" repeated his father, in
tones of blighting sarcasm, for the expression was
not new to him. " I have never grudged you money
for any proper purpose."

"No doubt, no doubt," said Alexander, "but
then you see you aren't always on the spot to
have the thing explained to you. Last night, for
instance "

"You could have wakened me last night," inter-
rupted his father.

" Was it not some similar affair that first got John
into a mess?" asked the son, skilfully evading the
point.

But the father was not less adroit. "And pray,
sir, how did you come and go out of the house ? " he
asked.

"I forgot to lock the door, it seems," replied
Alexander.

" I have had cause to complain of that too often,"
said Mr. Nicholson. "But still I do not understand.
Did you keep the servants up ? "

"I propose to go into all that at length after

F

82 TALES AND FANTASIES

breakfast," returned Alexander. " There is the half-
hour going; we must not keep Miss Mackenzie
waiting."

And greatly daring, he opened the door.

Even Alexander, who, it must have been perceived,
was on terms of comparative freedom with his parent
— even Alexander had never before dared to cut short
an interview in this high-handed fashion. But the
truth is, the very mass of his son's delinquencies
daunted the old gentleman. He was like the man
with the cart of apples — this was beyond him ! That
Alexander should have spoiled his table, taken his
money, stayed out all night, and then coolly acknow-
ledged all, was something undreamed of in the
Nicholsonian philosophy, and transcended comment.
The return of the change, which the old gentleman
still carried in his hand, had been a feature of impos-
ing impudence ; it had dealt him a staggering blow.
Then there was the reference to John's original flight
— a subject which he always kept resolutely curtained
in his own mind; for he was a man who loved to
have made no mistakes, and when he feared he might
have made one kept the papers sealed. In view of
all these surprises and reminders, and of his son's
composed and masterful demeanour, there began to
creep on Mr. Nicholson a sickly misgiving. He
seemed beyond his depth ; if he did or said anything,
he might come to regret it. The young man, besides,
as he had pointed out himself, was playing a generous
part. And if wrong had been done — and done to
one who was, after, and in spite of, all, a Nicholson
— it should certainly be righted.

JOHN NICHOLSON 83

All things considered, monstrous as it was to be
cut short in his inquiries, the old gentleman sub-
mitted, pocketed the change, and followed his son
into the dining-room. During these few steps he
once more mentally revolted, and once more, and
this time finally, laid down his arms : a still, small
voice in his bosom having informed him authentically
of a piece of news ; that he was afraid of Alexander.
The strange thing was that he was pleased to be
afraid of him. He was proud of his son ; he might
be proud of him; the boy had character and grit,
and knew what he was doing.

These were his reflections as he turned the corner
of the dining-room door. Miss Mackenzie was in
the place of honour, conjuring with a tea-pot and
a cosy ; and, behold ! there was another person
present, a large, portly, whiskered man of a very
comfortable and respectable air, who now rose from
his seat and came forward, holding out his hand.

11 Good-morning, father," said he.

Of the contention of feeling that ran high in Mr.
Nicholson's starched bosom, no outward sign was
visible ; nor did he delay long to make a choice of
conduct. Yet in that interval he had reviewed a
great field of possibilities both past and future;
whether it was possible he had not been perfectly
wise in his treatment of John ; whether it was pos-
sible that John was innocent ; whether, if he turned
John out a second time, as his outraged authority
suggested, it was possible to avoid a scandal ; and
whether, if he went to that extremity, it was possible
that Alexander might rebel.

84 TALES AND FANTASIES

" Hum ! " said Mr. Nicholson, and put his hand,
limp and dead, into John's.

And then, in an embarrassed silence, all took their
places ; and even the paper — from which it was the
old gentleman's habit to suck mortification daily, as
he marked the decline of our institutions — even the
paper lay furled by his side.

But presently Flora came to the rescue. She slid
into the silence with a technicality, asking if John
still took his old inordinate amount of sugar. Thence
it was but a step to the burning question of the day ;
and in tones a little shaken, she commented on the
interval since she had last made tea for the prodigal,
and congratulated him on his return. And then
addressing Mr. Nicholson, she congratulated him
also in a manner that defied his ill- humour ; and from
that launched into the tale of John's misadventures,
not without some suitable suppressions.

Gradually Alexander joined; between them, whether
he would or no, they forced a word or two from John;
and these fell so tremulously, and spoke so eloquently
of a mind oppressed with dread, that Mr. Nicholson
relented. At length even he contributed a question :
and before the meal was at an end all four were
talking even freely.

Prayers followed, with the servants gaping at this
new-comer whom no one had admitted; and after
prayers there came that moment on the clock which
was the signal for Mr. Nicholson's departure.

" John," said he, " of course you will stay here.
Be very careful not to excite Maria, if Miss Mac-
kenzie thinks it desirable that you should see her.

JOHN NICHOLSON 85

Alexander, I wish to speak with you alone." And
then, when they were both in the back room : "You
need not come to the office to-day," said he ; " you
can stay and amuse your brother, and I think it
would be respectful to call on Uncle Greig. And by
the-bye" (this spoken with a certain— dare we sayr
— bashfulness), " I agree to concede the principle of
an allowance ; and I will consult with Doctor Durie,
who is quite a man of the world and has sons of his
own, as to the amount. And, my fine fellow, you
may consider yourself in luck ! " he added, with a
smile.

" Thank you," said Alexander.

Before noon a detective had restored to John his
money, and brought news, sad enough in truth, but
perhaps the least sad possible. Alan had been found
in his own house in Regent Terrace, under care of
the terrified butler. He was quite mad, and instead
of going to prison, had gone to Morningside Asylum.
The murdered man, it appeared, was an evicted
tenant who had for nearly a year pursued his late
landlord with threats and insults ; and beyond this,
the cause and details of the tragedy were lost.

When Mr. Nicholson returned from dinner they
were able to put a despatch into his hands : " John
V. Nicholson, Randolph Crescent, Edinburgh. —
Kirkman has disappeared; police looking for him.
All understood. Keep mind quite easy. — Austin."
Having had this explained to him, the old gentleman
took down the cellar key and departed for two bottles
of the 1820 port. Uncle Greig dined there that day,
and Cousin Robina, and, by an odd chance, Mr.

86 TALES AND FANTASIES

Macewen ; and the presence of these strangers relieved
what might have been otherwise a somewhat strained
relation. Ere they departed, the family was welded
once more into a fair semblance of unity.

In the end of April John led Flora — or, as more
descriptive, Flora led John — to the altar, if altar that
may be called which was indeed the drawing-room
mantelpiece in Mr. Nicholson's house, with the
Reverend Dr. Durie posted on the hearthrug in the
guise of Hymen's priest.

The last I saw of them, on a recent visit to the
north, was at a dinner-party in the house of my old
friend Gellatly Macbride ; and after we had, in classic
phrase, "rejoined the ladies," I had an opportunity
to overhear Flora conversing with another married
woman on the much canvassed matter of a husband's
tobacco.

" Oh yes ! " said she ; " I only allow Mr. Nicholson
four cigars a day. Three he smokes at fixed times —
after a meal, you know, my dear ; and the fourth he
can take when he likes with any friend."

"Bravo!" thought I to myself ; "this is the wife
for my friend John ! "

THE BODY-SNATCHER

EVERY night in the year, four of us sat in the small
parlour of the George at Debenham — the undertaker,
and the landlord, and Fettes, and myself. Some-
times there would be more ; but blow high, blow low,
come rain or snow or frost, we four would be each
planted in his own particular armchair. Fettes was
an old drunken Scotchman, a man of education obvi-
ously, and a man of some property, since he lived in
idleness. He had come to Debenham years ago,
while still young, and by a mere continuance of
living had grown to be an adopted townsman. His
blue camlet cloak was a local antiquity, like the
church-spire. His place in the parlour at the George,
his absence from church, his old, crapulous, disreput-
able vices, were all things of course in Debenham.
He had some vague Radical opinions and some fleet-
ing infidelities, which he would now and again set
forth and emphasise with tottering slaps upon the
table. He drank rum — five glasses regularly every
evening; and for the greater portion of his nightly
visit to the George sat, with his glass in his right
hand, in a state of melancholy alcoholic saturation.
We called him the Doctor, for he was supposed to

have some special knowledge of medicine, and had
87

88 TALES AND FANTASIES

been known, upon a pinch, to set a fracture or reduce
a dislocation; but beyond these slight particulars,
we had no knowledge of his character and ante-
cedents.

One dark winter night — it had struck nine some
time before the landlord joined us — there was a sick
man in the George, a great neighbouring proprietor
suddenly struck down with apoplexy on his way to
Parliament ; and the great man's still greater London
doctor had been telegraphed to his bedside. It was
the first time that such a thing had happened in
Debenham, for the railway was but newly open, and
we were all proportionately moved by the occurrence.

" He's come," said the landlord, after he had filled
and lighted his pipe.

" He ? " said I. " Who ?— not the doctor ? "

" Himself," replied our host.

" What is his name ? "

" Doctor Macfarlane," said the landlord.

Fettes was far through his third tumbler, stupidly
fuddled, now nodding over, now staring mazily
around him; but at the last word he seemed to
awaken, and repeated the name " Macfarlane " twice,
quietly enough the first time, but with sudden
emotion at the second.

"Yes," said the landlord, "that's his name, Doctor
Wolfe Macfarlane."

Fettes became instantly sober; his eyes awoke,
his voice became clear, loud, and steady, his lan-
guage forcible and earnest. We were all startled
by the transformation, as if a man had risen from
the dead.

THE BODY-SNATCHER 89

11 1 beg your pardon," he said, " I am afraid I have
not been paying much attention to your talk. Who
is this Wolfe Macfarlane ? " And then, when he had
heard the landlord out, " It cannot be, it cannot be,"
he added; "and yet I would like well to see him
face to face."

"Do you know him, Doctor?" asked the under-
taker, with a gasp.

"God forbid!" was the reply. "And yet the
name is a strange one; it were too much to fancy
two. Tell me, landlord, is he old ? "

" Well," said the host, " he's not a young man, to
be sure, and his hair is white ; but he looks younger
than you."

"He is older, though ; years older. But," with a
slap upon the table, "it's the rum you see in my
face — rum and sin. This man, perhaps, may have
an easy conscience and a good digestion. Con-
science ! Hear me speak. You would think I was
some good, old, decent Christian, would you not?
But no, not I ; I never canted. Voltaire might
have canted if he'd stood in my shoes; but the
brains" — with a rattling fillip on his bald head —
"the brains were clear and active, and I saw and
made no deductions."

"If you know this doctor," I ventured to remark,
after a somewhat awful pause, " I should gather that
you do not share the landlord's good opinion."

Fettes paid no regard to me.

"Yes," he said, with sudden decision, "I must see
him face to face."

There was another pause, and then a door was

9o TALES AND FANTASIES

closed rather sharply on the first floor, and a step
was heard upon the stair.

" That's the doctor," cried the landlord. " Look
sharp, and you can catch him."

It was but two steps from the small parlour to the
door of the old George Inn ; the wide oak staircase
landed almost in the street; there was room for a
Turkey rug and nothing more between the threshold
and the last round of the descent; but this little
space was every evening brilliantly lit up, not only by
the light upon the stair and the great signal-lamp
below the sign, but by the warm radiance of the bar-
room window. The George thus brightly advertised
itself to passers-by in the cold street. Fettes walked
steadily to the spot, and we, who were hanging
behind, beheld the two men meet, as one of them
had phrased it, face to face. Dr. Macfarlane was
alert and vigorous. His white hair set off his pale
and placid, although energetic, countenance. He
was richly dressed in the finest of broadcloth and the
whitest of linen, with a great gold watch-chain, and
studs and spectacles of the same precious material.
He wore a broad-folded tie, white and speckled with
lilac, and he carried on his arm a comfortable driving-
coat of fur. There was no doubt but he became his
years, breathing, as he did, of wealth and considera-
tion; and it was a surprising contrast to see our
parlour sot — bald, dirty, pimpled, and robed in his
old camlet cloak — confront him at the bottom of the
stairs.

"Macfarlane!" he said somewhat loudly, more
like a herald than a friend.

THE BODY-SNATCHER 91

The great doctor pulled up short on the fourth
step, as though the familiarity of the address sur-
prised and somewhat shocked his dignity.

"Toddy Macfarlane ! " repeated Fettes.

The London man almost staggered. He stared
for the swiftest of seconds at the man before him,
glanced behind him with a sort of scare, and then in
a startled whisper, " Fettes ! " he said, " you ! "

"Ay," said the other, "me! Did you think I
was dead too? We are not so easy shut of our
acquaintance."

"Hush, hush!" exclaimed the doctor. "Hush,
hush ! this meeting is so unexpected — I can see you
are unmanned. I hardly knew you, I confess, at
first; but I am overjoyed — overjoyed to have this
opportunity. For the present it must be how-d'ye-do
and good-bye in one, for my fly is waiting, and I must
not fail the train ; but you shall — let me see — yes —
you shall give me your address, and you can count
on early news of me. We must do something for
you, Fettes. I fear you are out at elbows; but we
must see to that for auld lang syne, as once we sang
at suppers/'

" Money ! " cried Fettes ; " money from you ! The
money that I had from you is lying where I cast it in
the rain."

Dr. Macfarlane had talked himself into some
measure of superiority and confidence, but the un-
common energy of this refusal cast him back into
his first confusion.

A horrible, ugly look came and went across his
almost venerable countenance. "My dear fellow,"

92 TALES AND FANTASIES

he said, "be it as you please ; my last thought is to
offend you. I would intrude on none. I will leave
you my address, however "

" I do not wish it — I do not wish to know the roof
that shelters you," interrupted the other. " I heard
your name ; I feared it might be you ; I wished to
know if, after all, there were a God ; I know now that
there is none. Begone ! "

He still stood in the middle of the rug, between
the stair and doorway ; and the great London physi-
cian, in order to escape, would be forced to step to
one side. It was plain that he hesitated before the
thought of this humiliation. White as he was, there
was a dangerous glitter in his spectacles ; but while
he still paused uncertain, he became aware that the
driver of his fly was peering in from the street at this
unusual scene and caught a glimpse at the same time
of our little body from the parlour, huddled by the
corner of the bar. The presence of so many witnesses
decided him at once to flee. He crouched together,
brushing on the wainscot, and made a dart like a
serpent, striking for the door. But his tribulation
was not yet entirely at an end, for even as he was
passing Fettes clutched him by the arm and these
words came in a whisper, and yet painfully distinct,
" Have you seen it again? "

The great rich London doctor cried out aloud with
a sharp, throttling cry; he dashed his questioner
across the open space, and, with his hands over his
head, fled out of the door like a detected thief.
Before it had occurred to one of us to make a move-
ment the fly was already rattling toward the station.

THE BODY-SNATCHER 93

The scene was over like a dream, but the dream had
left proofs and traces of its passage. Next day the
servant found the fine gold spectacles broken on the
threshold, and that very night we were all standing
breathless by the bar-room window, and Fettes at our
side, sober, pale, and resolute in look.

11 God protect us, Mr. Fettes ! " said the landlord,
coming first into possession of his customary senses.
" What in the universe is all this ? These are strange
things you have been saying."

Fettes turned toward us; he looked us each in
succession in the face. " See if you can hold your
tongues," said he. "That man Macfarlane is not
safe to cross ; those that have done so already have
repented it too late."

And then, without so much as finishing his third
glass, far less waiting for the other two, he bade us
good-bye and went forth, under the lamp of the hotel,
into the black night.

We three turned to our places in the parlour, with
the big red fire and four clear candles; and as we
recapitulated what had passed, the first chill of our
surprise soon changed into a glow of curiosity. We
sat late ; it was the latest session I have known in the
old George. Each man, before we parted, had his
theory that he was bound to prove ; and none of us
had any nearer business in this world than to track
out the past of our condemned companion, and sur-
prise the secret that he shared with the great London
doctor. It is no great boast, but I believe I was a
better hand at worming out a story than either of my
fellows at the George ; and perhaps there is now no

94 TALES AND FANTASIES

other man alive who could narrate to you the following
foul and unnatural events.

In his young days Fettes studied medicine in the
schools of Edinburgh. He had talent of a kind, the
talent that picks up swiftly what it hears and readily
retails it for its own. He worked little at home ; but
he was civil, attentive, and intelligent in the presence
of his masters. They soon picked him out as a lad
who listened closely and remembered well ; nay,
strange as it seemed to me when I first heard it, he
was in those days well favoured, and pleased by his
exterior. There was, at that period, a certain extra-
mural teacher of anatomy, whom I shall here desig-
nate by the letter K. His name was subsequently too
well known. The man who bore it skulked through
the streets of Edinburgh in disguise, while the mob
that applauded at the execution of Burke called

loudly for the blood of his employer. But Mr. K

was then at the top of his vogue ; he enjoyed a popu-
larity due partly to his own talent and address, partly
to the incapacity of his rival, the university professor.
The students, at least, swore by his name, and Fettes
believed himself, and was believed by others, to have
laid the foundations of success when he had acquired
the favour of this meteorically famous man. Mr.
K was a bon vivant as well as an accom-
plished teacher; he liked a sly illusion no less than
a careful preparation. In both capacities Fettes
enjoyed and deserved his notice, and by the second
year of his attendance he held the half-regular posi-
tion of second demonstrator or sub-assistant in his
class.

THE BODY-SNATCHER 95

In this capacity the charge of the theatre and lecture-
room devolved in particular upon his shoulders. He
had to answer for the cleanliness of the premises and
the conduct of the other students, and it was a part
of his duty to supply, receive, and divide the various
subjects. It was with a view to this last — at that
time very delicate — affair that he was lodged by Mr.

K in the same wynd, and at last in the same

building, with the dissecting-rooms. Here, after a
night of turbulent pleasures, his hand still tottering,
his sight still misty and confused, he would be called
out of bed in the black hours before the winter dawn
by the unclean and desperate interlopers who supplied
the table. He would open the door to these men,
since infamous throughout the land. He would help
them with their tragic burden, pay them their sordid
price, and remain alone, when they were gone, with
the unfriendly relics of humanity. From such a
scene he would return to snatch another hour or
two of slumber, to repair the abuses of the night,
and refresh himself for the labours of the day.

Few lads could have been more insensible to the
impressions of a life thus passed among the ensigns
of mortality. His mind was closed against all general
considerations. He was incapable of interest in the
fate and fortunes of another, the slave of his own
desires and low ambitions. Cold, light, and selfish
in the last resort, he had that modicum of prudence,
miscalled morality, which keeps a man from incon-
venient drunkenness or punishable theft. He coveted,
besides, a measure of consideration from his masters
and his fellow-pupils, and he had no desire to fail

96 TALES AND FANTASIES

conspicuously in the external parts of life. Thus he
made it his pleasure to gain some distinction in his
studies, and day after day rendered unimpeachable

eye-service to his employer, Mr. K . For his

day of work he indemnified himself by nights of roar-
ing, blackguardly enjoyment ; and when that balance
had been struck, the organ that he called his con-
science declared itself content.

The supply of subjects was a continual trouble to
him as well as to his master. In that large and busy
class, the raw material of the anatomists kept per-
petually running out ; and the business thus rendered
necessary was not only unpleasant in itself, but
threatened dangerous consequences to all who were

concerned. It was the policy of Mr. K to ask

no questions in his dealings with the trade. " They
bring the body, and we pay the price," he used to
say, dwelling on the alliteration — "quid pro quo"
And, again, and somewhat profanely, " Ask no ques-
tions," he would tell his assistants, " for conscience*
sake." There was no understanding that the subjects
were provided by the crime of murder. Had that
idea been broached to him in words, he would have
recoiled in horror; but the lightness of his speech
upon so grave a matter was, in itself, an offence
against good manners, and a temptation to the men
with whom he dealt. Fettes, for instance, had often
remarked to himself upon the singular freshness of
the bodies. He had been struck again and again by
the hang-dog, abominable looks of the ruffians who
came to him before the dawn ; and putting things
together clearly in his private thoughts, he perhaps

THE BODY-SNATCHER 97

attributed a meaning too immoral and too categorical
to the unguarded counsels of his master. He under-
stood his duty, in short, to have three branches : to
take what was brought, to pay the price, and to avert
the eye from any evidence of crime.

One November morning this policy of silence was
put sharply to the test. He had been awake all
night with a racking toothache — pacing his room
like a caged beast or throwing himself in fury on his
bed — and had fallen at last into that profound, uneasy
slumber that so often follows on a night of pain, when
he was awakened by the third or fourth angry repeti-
tion of the concerted signal. There was a thin, bright
moonshine ; it was bitter cold, windy, and frosty ; the
town had not yet awakened, but an indefinable stir
already preluded the noise and business of the day.
The ghouls had come later than usual, and they
seemed more than usually eager to be gone. Fettes,
sick with sleep, lighted them upstairs. He heard
their grumbling Irish voices through a dream ; and
as they stripped the sack from their sad merchandise
he leaned dozing, with his shoulder propped against
the wall; he had to shake himself to find the men
their money. As he did so his eyes lighted on the
dead face. He started; he took two steps nearer,
with the candle raised.

"God Almighty!" he cried. "That is Jane
Galbraith ! "

The men answered nothing, but they shuffled nearer
the door.

"I know her, I tell you," he continued. "She
was alive and hearty yesterday. It's impossible she

G

98 TALES AND FANTASIES

can be dead; it's impossible you should have got
this body fairly."

"Sure, sir, you're mistaken entirely," said one of
the men.

But the other looked Fettes darkly in the eyes, and
demanded the money on the spot.

It was impossible to misconceive the threat or to
exaggerate the danger. The lad's heart failed him.
He stammered some excuses, counted out the sum,
and saw his hateful visitors depart. No sooner were
they gone than he hastened to confirm his doubts.
By a dozen unquestionable marks he identified the
girl he had jested with the day before. He saw,rwith
horror, marks upon her body that might well betoken
violence. A panic seized him, and he took refuge in
his room. There he reflected at length over the
discovery that he had made ; considered soberly the

bearing of Mr. K 's instructions and the danger

to himself of interference in so serious a business,
and at last, in sore perplexity, determined to wait
for the advice of his immediate superior, the class
assistant.

This was a young doctor, Wolfe Macfarlane, a high
favourite among all the reckless students, clever,
dissipated, and unscrupulous to the last degree. He
had travelled and studied abroad. His manners
were agreeable and a little forward. He was an
authority on the stage, skilful on the ice or the links
with skate or golf-club ; he dressed with nice audacity,
and, to put the finishing touch upon his glory, he
kept a gig and a strong trotting-horse. With Fettes
he was on terms of intimacy; indeed, their relative

THE BODY-SNATCHER 99

positions called for some community of life; and
when subjects were scarce the pair would drive far
into the country in Macfarlane's gig, visit and dese-
crate some lonely graveyard, and return before dawn
with their booty to the door of the dissecting-room.

On that particular morning Macfarlane arrived
somewhat earlier than his wont. Fettes heard him,
and met him on the stairs, told him his story, and
showed him the cause of his alarm. Macfarlane
examined the marks on her body.

" Yes," he said with a nod, " it looks fishy."

" Well, what should I do? " asked Fettes.

"Do?" repeated the other. "Do you want to
do anything ? Least said soonest mended, I should
say."

"Some one else might recognise her," objected
Fettes. "She was as well known as the Castle
Rock."

"We'll hope not," said Macfarlane, "and if any-
body does — well, you didn't, don't you see, and
there's an end. The fact is, this has been going on

too long. Stir up the mud, and you'll get K

into the most unholy trouble ; you'll be in a shocking
box yourself. So will I, if you come to that. I
should like to know how any one of us would look,
or what the devil we should have to say for our-
selves, in any Christian witness-box. For me, you
know, there's one thing certain — that, practically
speaking, all our subjects have been murdered."

" Macfarlane ! " cried Fettes.

" Come now ! " sneered the other. " As if you
hadn't suspected it yourself!"

ioo TALES AND FANTASIES

" Suspecting is one thing "

"And proof another. Yes, I know; and I'm as
sorry as you are this should have come here," tapping
the body with his cane. "The next best thing for
me is not to recognise it ; and," he added coolly, " I
don't. You may, if you please. I don't dictate,
but I think a man of the world would do as I do ;

and I may add, I fancy that is what K would

look for at our hands. The question is, Why did he
choose us two for his assistants? And I answer,
because he didn't want old wives."

This was the tone of all others to affect the mind
of a lad like Fettes. He agreed to imitate Mac-
farlane. The body of the unfortunate girl was duly
dissected, and no one remarked or appeared to
recognise her.

One afternoon, when his day's work was over,
Fettes dropped into a popular tavern and found
Macfarlane sitting with a stranger. This was a small
man, very pale and dark, with coal-black eyes. The
cut of his features gave a promise of intellect and
refinement which was but feebly realised in his
manners, for he proved, upon a nearer acquaint-
ance, coarse, vulgar, and stupid. He exercised, how-
ever, a very remarkable control over Macfarlane;
issued orders like the Great Bashaw; became inflamed
at the least discussion or delay, and commented
rudely on the servility with which he was obeyed.
This most offensive person took a fancy to Fettes on
the spot, plied him with drinks, and honoured him
with unusual confidences on his past career. If a
tenth part of what he confessed were true, he was

THE BODY-SNATCHER 101

a very loathsome rogue; and the lad's vanity was
tickled by the attention of so experienced a man.

" I'm a pretty bad fellow myself," the stranger
remarked, " but Macfarlane is the boy — Toddy Mac-
farlane I call him. Toddy, order your friend another
glass." Or it might be, " Toddy, you jump up and
shut the door." " Toddy hates me," he said again.
" Oh yes, Toddy, you do ! "

"Don't you call me that confounded name,"
growled Macfarlane.

"Hear him! Did you ever see the lads play
knife ? He would like to do that all over my body,"
remarked the stranger.

" We medicals have a better way than that," said
Fettes. " When we dislike a dead friend of ours, we
dissect him."

Macfarlane looked up sharply, as though this jest
were scarcely to his mind.

The afternoon passed. Gray, for that was the
stranger's name, invited Fettes to join them at dinner,
ordered a feast so sumptuous that the tavern was
thrown into commotion, and when all was done com-
manded Macfarlane to settle the bill. It was late
before they separated ; the man Gray was incapably
drunk. Macfarlane, sobered by his fury, chewed the
cud of the money he had been forced to squander
and the slights he had been obliged to swallow.
Fettes, with various liquors singing in his head,
returned home with devious footsteps and a mind
entirely in abeyance. Next day Macfarlane was
absent from the class, and Fettes smiled to himself
as he imagined him still squiring the intolerable Gray

102 TALES AND FANTASIES

from tavern to tavern. As soon as the hour of
liberty had struck, he posted from place to place in
quest of his last night's companions. He could find
them, however, nowhere ; so returned early to his
rooms, went early to bed, and slept the sleep of the
just.

At four in the morning he was awakened by the
well-known signal. Descending to the door, he was
rilled with astonishment to find Macfarlane with his
gig, and in the gig one of those long and ghastly
packages with which he was so well acquainted.

" What ? " he cried. " Have you been out alone?
How did you manage ? "

But Macfarlane silenced him roughly, bidding him
turn to business. When they had got the body up-
stairs and laid it on the table, Macfarlane made at
first as if he were going away. Then he paused and
seemed to hesitate ; and then, " You had better look
at the face," said he, in tones of some constraint.
" You had better," he repeated, as Fettes only stared
at him in wonder.

"But where, and how, and when did you come by
it ? " cried the other.

" Look at the face," was the only answer.

Fettes was staggered ; strange doubts assailed him.
He looked from the young doctor to the body, and
then back again. At last, with a start, he did as he
was bidden. He had almost expected the sight that
met his eyes, and yet the shock was cruel. To see,
fixed in the rigidity of death and naked on that
coarse layer of sackcloth, the man whom he had left
well clad and full of meat and sin upon the threshold

THE BODY-SNATCHER 103

of a tavern, awoke, even in the thoughtless Fettes,
some of the terrors of the conscience. It was a eras
tibi which re-echoed in his soul, that two whom he
had known should have come to lie upon these icy
tables. Yet these were only secondary thoughts.
His first concern regarded Wolfe. Unprepared for
a challenge so momentous, he knew not how to look
his comrade in the face. He durst not meet his eye,
and he had neither words nor voice at his command.

It was Macfarlane himself who made the first
advance. He came up quietly behind and laid his
hand gently but firmly on the other's shoulder.

" Richardson," said he, " may have the head."

Now, Richardson was a student who had long been
anxious for that portion of the human subject to
dissect. There was no answer, and the murderer
resumed: "Talking of business, you must pay me;
your accounts, you see, must tally."

Fettes found a voice, the ghost of his own : " Pay
you ! " he cried. " Pay you for that ? "

" Why, yes, of course you must. By all means
and on every possible account, you must," .eturned
the other. " I dare not give it for nothing, you dare
not take it for nothing ; it would compromise us both.
This is another case like Jane Galbraith's. The more
things are wrong, the more we must act as if all were
right. Where does old K keep his money ? "

" There," answered Fettes hoarsely, pointing to a
cupboard in the corner.

"Give me the key, then," said the other calmly,
holding out his hand.

There was an instant's hesitation, and the die was

104 TALES AND FANTASIES

cast. Macfarlane could not suppress a nervous twitch,
the infinitesimal mark of an immense relief, as he felt
the key between his fingers. He opened the cup-
board, brought out pen and ink and a paper-book
that stood in one compartment, and separated from
the funds in a drawer a sum suitable to the occasion.

"Now, look here," he said, "there is the payment
made — first proof of your good faith : first step to
your security. You have now to clinch it by a second.
Enter the payment in your book, and then you for
your part may defy the devil."

The next few seconds were for Fettes an agony
of thought; but in balancing his terrors it was the
most immediate that triumphed. Any future diffi-
culty seemed almost welcome if he could avoid a
present quarrel with Macfarlane. He set down the
candle which he had been carrying all this time, and
with a steady hand entered the date, the nature, and
the amount of the transaction.

"And now," said Macfarlane, "it's only fair that
you should pocket the lucre. I've had my share
already. By-the-bye, when a man of the world falls
into a bit of luck, has a few shillings extra in his
pocket — I'm ashamed to speak of it, but there's a
rule of conduct in the case. No treating, no pur-
chase of expensive class-books, no squaring of old
debts ; borrow, don't lend."

" Macfarlane," began Fettes, still somewhat hoarsely,
" I have put my neck in a halter to oblige you."

"To oblige me?" cried Wolfe. "Oh, come!
You did, as near as I can see the matter, what you
downright had to do in self-defence. Suppose I got

THE BODY-SNATCHER 105

into trouble, where would you be? This second
little matter flows clearly from the first. Mr. Gray
is the continuation of Miss Galbraith. You can't
begin and then stop. If you begin, you must keep
on beginning; that's the truth. No rest for the
wicked." ,

A horrible sense of blackness and the treachery
of fate seized hold upon the soul of the unhappy
student.

"My God!" he cried, "but what have I done?
and when did I begin ? To be made a class assistant
— in the name of reason, where's the harm in that ?
Service wanted the position -y Service might have got
it. Would he have been where / am now ? "

" My dear fellow," said Macfarlane, " what a boy
you are! What harm has come to you? What
harm can come to you if you hold your tongue?
Why, man, do you know what this life is? There
are two squads of us — the lions and the lambs. If
you're a lamb, you'll come to lie upon these tables
like Gray or Jane Galbraith ; if you're a lion, you'll

live and drive a horse like me, like K , like all

the world with any wit or courage. You're staggered

at the first. But look at K ! My dear fellow,

you're clever, you have pluck. I like you, and

K likes you. You were born to lead the hunt ;

and I tell you, on my honour and my experience of
life, three days from now you'll laugh at all these
scarecrows like a High School boy at a farce."

And with that Macfarlane took his departure and
drove off up the wynd in his gig to get under cover
before daylight. Fettes was thus left alone with his

io6 TALES AND FANTASIES

regrets. He saw the miserable peril in which he
stood involved. He saw, with inexpressible dismay,
that there was no limit to his weakness, and that,
from concession to concession, he had fallen from
the arbiter of Macfarlane's destiny to his paid and
helpless accomplice. He would have given the world
to have been a little braver at the time, but it did not
occur to him that he might still be brave. The
secret of Jane Galbraith and the cursed entry in the
day-book closed his mouth.

Hours passed ; the class began to arrive ; the
members of the unhappy Gray were dealt out to
one and to another, and received without remark.
Richardson was made happy with the head; and
before the hour of freedom rang, Fettes trembled with
exultation to perceive how far they had already gone
toward safety.

For two days he continued to watch, with increas-
ing joy, the dreadful process of disguise.

On the third day Macfarlane made his appearance.
He had been ill, he said ; but he made up for lost
time by the energy with which he directed the
students. To Richardson in particular he extended
the most valuable assistance and advice, and that
student, encouraged by the praise of the demonstrator,
burned high with ambitious hopes, and saw the medal
already in his grasp.

Before the week was out Macfarlane's prophecy
had been fulfilled. Fettes had outlived his terrors
and had forgotten his baseness. He began to plume
himself upon his courage, and had so arranged the
story in his mind that he could look back on these

THE BODY-SNATCHER 107

events with an unhealthy pride. Of his accomplice
he saw but little. They met, of course, in the busi-
ness of the class ; they received their orders together

from Mr. K . At times they had a word or two

in private, and Macfarlane was from first to last par-
ticularly kind and jovial. But it was plain that he
avoided any reference to their common secret ; and
even when Fettes whispered to him that he had cast
in his lot with the lions and forsworn the lambs, he
only signed to him smilingly to hold his peace.

At length an occasion arose which threw the pair

once more into a closer union. Mr. K was again

short of subjects ; pupils were eager, and it was a part
of this teacher's pretensions to be always well supplied.
At the same time there came the news of a burial in
the rustic graveyard of Glencorse. Time has little
changed the place in question. It stood then, as
now, upon a cross-road, out of call of human habita-
tions, and buried fathom deep in the foliage of six
cedar trees. The cries of the shee^> upon the neigh-
bouring hills, the streamlets upon either hand, one
loudly singing among pebbles, the other dripping
furtively from pond to pond, the stir of the wind in
mountainous old flowering chestnuts, and once in
seven days the voice of the bell and the old tunes of
the precentor, were the only sounds that disturbed
the silence around the rural church. The Resurrec-
tion Man — to use a byname of the period — was not
to be deterred by any of the sanctities of customary
piety. It was part of his trade to despise and dese-
crate the scrolls and trumpets of old tombs, the paths
worn by the feet of worshippers and mourners, and

io8 TALES AND FANTASIES

the offerings and the inscriptions of bereaved affec-
tion. To rustic neighbourhoods, where love is more
than commonly tenacious, and where some bonds
of blood or fellowship unite the entire society of a
parish, the body-snatcher, far from being repelled by
natural respect, was attracted by the ease and safety
of the task. To bodies that had been laid in earth,
in joyful expectation of a far different awakening,
there came that hasty, lamp-lit, terror-haunted resur-
rection of the spade and mattock. The coffin was
forced, the cerements torn, and the melancholy relics,
clad in sackcloth, after being rattled for hours on
moonless byways, were at length exposed to utter-
most indignities before a class of gaping boys.

Somewhat as two vultures may swoop upon a
dying lamb, Fettes and Macfarlane were to be let loose
upon a grave in that green and quiet resting-place.
The wife of a farmer, a woman who had lived for
sixty years, and been known for nothing but good
butter and a godly conversation, was to be rooted
from her grave at midnight and carried, dead and
naked, to that far-away city that she had always
honoured with her Sunday's best; the place beside
her family was to be empty till the crack of doom ;
her innocent and almost venerable members to be
exposed to that last curiosity of the anatomist.

Late one afternoon the pair set forth, well wrapped
in cloaks and furnished with a formidable bottle. It
rained without remission — a cold, dense, lashing rain.
Now and again there blew a puff of wind, but these
sheets of falling water kept it down. Bottle and all,
it was a sad and silent drive as far as Penicuilr, where

THE BODY-SNATCHER 109

they were to spend the evening. They stopped once,
to hide their implements in a thick bush not far from
the churchyard, and once again at the Fisher's Tryst,
to have a toast before the kitchen fire and vary their
nips of whisky with a glass of ale. When they reached
their journey's end the gig was housed, the horse was
fed and comforted, and the two young doctors in a
private room sat down to the best dinner and the
best wine the house afforded. The lights, the fire,
the beating rain upon the window, the cold, incon-
gruous work that lay beiore them, added zest to their
enjoyment of the meal. With every glass their cordi-
ality increased. Soon Macfarlane handed a little
pile of gold to his companion.

" A compliment," he said. " Between friends these
little d d accommodations ought to fly like pipe-
lights."

Fettes pocketed the money, and applauded the
sentiment to the echo. "You are a philosopher,"
he cried. " I was an ass till I knew you. You and

K between you, by the Lord Harry ! but you'll

make a man of me."

" Of course we shall," applauded Macfarlane. " A
man ? I tell you, it required a man to back me up
the other morning. There are some big, brawling,
forty-year-old cowards who would have turned sick

at the look of the d d thing ; but not you— you

kept your head. I watched you."

" Well, and why not ? " Fettes thus vaunted him-
self. " It was no affair of mine. There was nothing
to gain on the one side but disturbance, and on the
other I could count on your gratitude, don't you

no TALES AND FANTASIES

see?" And he slapped his pocket till the gold
pieces rang.

Macfarlane somehow felt a certain touch of alarm
at these unpleasant words. He may have regretted
that he had taught his young companion so success-
fully, but he had no time to interfere, for the other
noisily continued in this boastful strain :

"The great thing is not to be afraid. Now,
between you and me, I don't want to hang — that's
practical; but for all cant, Macfarlane, I was born
with a contempt. Hell, God, Devil, right, wrong,
sin, crime, and all the old gallery of curiosities —
they may frighten boys, but men of the world, like
you and me, despise them. Here's to the memory
of Gray ! "

It was by this time growing somewhat late. The
gig, according to order, was brought round to the
door with both lamps brightly shining, and the young
men had to pay their bill and take the road. They
announced that they were bound for Peebles, and
drove in that direction till they were clear of the last
houses of the town ; then, extinguishing the lamps,
returned upon their course, and followed a by-road
toward Glencorse. There was no sound but that of
their own passage, and the incessant, strident pouring
of the rain. It was pitch dark; here and there a
white gate or a white stone in the wall guided them
for a short space across the night ; but for the most
part it was at a foot pace, and almost groping, that
they picked their way through that resonant black-
ness to their solemn and isolated destination. In
the sunken woods that traverse the neighbourhood

THE BODY-SNATCHER in

of the burying-ground the last glimmer failed them,
and it became necessary to kindle a match and re-
illumine one of the lanterns of the gig. Thus, under
the dripping trees, and environed by huge and moving
shadows, they reached the scene of their unhallowed
labours.

They were both experienced in such affairs, and
powerful with the spade ; and they had scarce been
twenty minutes at their task before they were re-
warded by a dull rattle on the coffin lid. At the
same moment Macfarlane, having hurt his hand
upon a stone, flung it carelessly above his head.
The grave, in which they now stood almost to the
shoulders, was close to the edge of the plateau of
the graveyard ; and the gig lamp had been propped,
the better to illuminate their labours, against a tree,
and on the immediate verge of the steep bank
descending to the stream. Chance had taken a
sure aim with the stone. Then came a clang of
broken glass ; night fell upon them ; sounds alter-
nately dull and ringing announced the bounding of
the lantern down the bank, and its occasional colli-
sion with the trees. A stone or two, which it had
dislodged in its descent, rattled behind it into the
profundities of the glen ; and then silence, like night,
resumed its sway ; and they might bend their hearing
to its utmost pitch, but naught was to be heard except
the rain, now marching to the wind, now steadily
falling over miles of open country.

They were so nearly at an end of their abhorred
task that they judged it wisest to complete it in the
dark. The coffin was exhumed and broken open ;

ii2 TALES AND FANTASIES

the body inserted in the dripping sack and carried
between them to the gig ; one mounted to keep it in
its place, and the other, taking the horse by the
mouth, groped along by wall and bush until they
reached the wider road by the Fisher's Tryst. Here
was a faint, diffused radiancy, which they hailed like
daylight; by that they pushed the horse to a good
pace and began to rattle along merrily in the direction
of the town.

They had both been wetted to the skin during
their operations, and now, as the gig jumped among
the deep ruts, the thing that stood propped between
them fell now upon one and now upon the other.
At every repetition of the horrid contact each instinc-
tively repelled it with the greater haste; and the
process, natural although it was, began to tell upon
the nerves of the companions. Macfarlane made
some ill-favoured jest about the farmer's wife, but it
came hollowly from his lips, and was allowed to drop
in silence. Still their unnatural burden bumped
from side to side ; and now the head would be laid,
as if in confidence, upon their shoulders, and now the
drenching sackcloth would flap icily about their faces.
A creeping chill began to possess the soul of Fettes.
He peered at the bundle, and it seemed somehow
larger than at first. All over the country-side, and
from every degree of distance, the farm dogs accom-
panied their passage with tragic ululations; and it
grew and grew upon his mind that some unnatural
miracle had been accomplished, that some nameless
change had befallen the dead body, and that it was in
fear of their unholy burden that the dogs were howling.

THE BODY-SNATCHER 113

" For God's sake," said he, making a great effort
to arrive at speech, "for God's sake, let's have a
light ! "

Seemingly Macfarlane was affected in the same
direction ; for, though he made no reply, he stopped
the horse, passed the reins to his companion, got
down, and proceeded to kindle the remaining lamp.
They had by that time got no farther than the cross-
road down to Auchenclinny. The rain still poured
as though the deluge were returning, and it was no
easy matter to make a light in such a world of wet
and darkness. When at last the flickering blue flame
had been transferred to the wick and began to
expand and clarify, and shed a wide circle of misty
brightness round the gig, it became possible for the
two young men to see each other and the thing they
had along with them. The rain had moulded the
rough sacking to the outlines of the body underneath ;
the head was distinct from the trunk, the shoulders
plainly modelled; something at once spectral and
human riveted their eyes upon the ghastly comrade
of their drive.

For some time Macfarlane stood motionless, hold-
ing up the lamp. A nameless dread was swathed,
like a wet sheet, about the body, and tightened the
white skin upon the face of Fettes; a fear that was
meaningless, a horror of what could not be, kept
mounting to his brain. Another beat of the watch,
and he had spoken. But his comrade forestalled
him.

"That is not a woman," said Macfarlane, in a
hushed voice.

H

1 14 TALES AND FANTASIES

11 It was a woman when we put her in," whispered
Fettes.

" Hold that lamp," said the other. " I must see
her face."

And as Fettes took the lamp his companion untied
the fastenings of the sack and drew down the cover
from the head. The light fell very clear upon the
dark, well - moulded features and smooth - shaven
cheeks of a too familiar countenance, often beheld
in dreams of both of these young men. A wild yell
rang up into the night; each leaped from his own
side into the roadway : the lamp fell, broke, and was
extinguished ; and the horse, terrified by this unusual
commotion, bounded and went off toward Edinburgh
at a gallop, bearing along with it, sole occupant of
the gig, the body of the dead and long-dissected
Gray.

THE STORY OF A LIE

CHAPTER I

INTRODUCES THE ADMIRAL

WHEN Dick Naseby was in Paris he made some odd
acquaintances; for he was one of those who have
ears to hear, and can use their eyes no less than their
intelligence. He made as many thoughts as Stuart
Mill ; but his philosophy concerned flesh and blood,
and was experimental as to its method. He was a
type-hunter among mankind. He despised small
game and insignificant personalities, whether in the
shape of dukes or bagmen, letting them go by like
seaweed ; but show him a refined or powerful face,
let him hear a plangent or a penetrating voice,
fish for him with a living look in some one's eye, a
passionate gesture, a meaning and ambiguous smile,
and his mind was instantaneously awakened. " There
was a man, there was a woman," he seemed to say,
and he stood up to the task of comprehension with
the delight of an artist in his art.

And indeed, rightly considered, this interest of his
was an artistic interest. There is no science in the
personal study of human nature. All comprehension

"3

ii6 TALES AND FANTASIES

is creation ; the woman I love is somewhat of my
handiwork ; and the great lover, like the great painter,
is he that can so embellish his subject as to make her
more than human, whilst yet by a cunning art he has
so based his apotheosis on the nature of the case that
the woman can go on being a true woman, and give
her character free play, and show littleness, or cherish
spite, or be greedy of common pleasures, and he con
tinue to worship without a thought of incongruity.
To love a character is only the heroic way of under-
standing it. When we love, by some noble method
of our own or some nobility of mien or nature in the
other, we apprehend the loved one by what is noblest
in ourselves. When we are merely studying an
eccentricity, the method of our study is but a series
of allowances. To begin to understand is to begin
to sympathise ; for comprehension comes only when
we have stated another's faults and virtues in terms
of our own. Hence the proverbial toleration of
artists for their own evil creations. Hence, too, it
came about that Dick Naseby, a high-minded
creature, and as scrupulous and brave a gentleman
as you would want to meet, held in a sort of affec-
tion the various human creeping things w>\om he
had met and studied.

One of these was Mr. Peter Van Tromp, an
English-speaking, two-legged animal of the inter-
national genus, and by profession of general and
more than equivocal utility. Years before, he had
been a painter of some standing in a colony, and
portraits signed "Van Tromp" had celebrated the
greatness of colonial governors and judges. In those

THE STORY OF A LIE 117

days he had been married, and driven his wife and
infant daughter in a pony trap. What were the steps
of his declension ? No one exactly knew. Here he
was at least, and had been any time these past ten
years, a sort of dismal parasite upon the foreigner in
Paris.

It would be hazardous to specify his exact industry.
Coarsely followed, it would have merited a name
grown somewhat unfamiliar to our ears. Followed
as he followed it, with a skilful reticence, in a kind of
social chiaroscuro, it was still possible for the polite
to call him a professional painter. His lair was in
the Grand Hotel and the gaudiest cafes. There he
might be seen jotting off a sketch with an air of
some inspiration ; and he was always affable, and one
of the easiest of men to fall in talk withal. A con-
versation usually ripened into a peculiar sort of inti-
macy, and it was extraordinary how many little
services Van Tromp contrived to render in the
course of six-and-thirty hours. He occupied a posi-
tion between a friend and a courier, which made him
worse than embarrassing to repay. But those whom
he obliged could always buy one of his villainous little
pictures, or, where the favours had been prolonged
and more than usually delicate, might order and pay
for a large canvas, with perfect certainty that they
would hear no more of the transaction.

Among resident artists he enjoyed celebrity of a
non-professional sort. He had spent more money —
no less than three individual fortunes, it was whis-
pered— than any of his associates could ever hope to
gain. Apart from his colonial career, he had been

u8 TALES AND FANTASIES

to Greece in a brigantine with four brass carronades ;
he had travelled Europe in a chaise and four, draw,
ing bridle at the palace-doors of German princes;
queens of song and dance had followed him like
sheep and paid his tailor's bills. And to behold him
now, seeking small loans with plaintive condescen-
sion, sponging for breakfast on an art-student of
nineteen, a fallen Don Juan who had neglected to
die at the propitious hour, had a colour of romance
for young imaginations. His name and his bright
past, seen through the prism of whispered gossip,
had gained him the nickname of The AdmiraJ-

Dick found him one day at the receipt of custom,
rapidly painting a pair of hens and a cock in a little
water-colour sketching box, and now and then glanc-
ing at the ceiling like a man who should seek inspira-
tion from the muse. Dick thought it remarkable
that a painter should choose to work over an absinthe
in a public cafe, and looked the man over. The
aged rakishness of his appearance was set off by a
youthful costume ; he had disreputable grey hair and
a disreputable sore, red nose ; but the coat and the
gesture, the outworks of the man, were still designed
for show. Dick came up to his table and inquired
if he might look at what the gentleman was doing.
No one was so delighted as the Admiral.

"A bit of a thing," said he. "I just dash them
off like that. I— I dash them off," he added with
a gesture.

"Quite so," said Dick, who was appalled by the
feebleness of the production.

" Understand me," continued Van Tromp ; " I am

THE STORY OF A LIE 119

a man of the world. And yet — once an artist always
an artist. All of a sudden a thought takes me in the
street ; I become its prey : it's like a pretty woman ;
no use to struggle ; I must — dash it off."

" I see," said Dick.

" Yes," pursued the painter ; " it all comes easily,
easily to me ; it is not my business ; it's a pleasure.
Life is my business — life — this great city, Paris —
Paris after dark— -its lights, its gardens, its odd
corners. Aha!" he cried, "to be young again!
The heart is young, but the heels are leaden. A
poor, mean business, to grow old ! Nothing remains
but the coup (Tail, the contemplative man's enjoy-
ment, Mr. ," and he paused for the name.

"Naseby," returned Dick.

The other treated him at once to an exciting
beverage, and expatiated on the pleasure of meeting
a compatriot in a foreign land; to hear him, you
would have thought they had encountered in Central
Africa. Dick had never found any one take a fancy
to him so readily, nor show it in an easier or less
offensive manner. He seemed tickled with him as an
elderly fellow about town might be tickled by a
pleasant and witty lad ; he indicated that he was no
precisian, but in his wildest times had never been
such a blade as he thought Dick. Dick protested,
but in vain. This manner of carrying an intimacy at
the bayonet's point was Van Tromp's stock-in-trade.
With an older man he insinuated himself ; with youth
he imposed himself, and in the same breath imposed
an ideal on his victim, who saw that he must work up
to it or lose the esteem of this old and vicious patron.

120 TALES AND FANTASIES

And what young man can bear to lose a character
for vice ?

At last, as it grew towards dinner-time, " Do you
know Paris ? " asked Van Tromp.

" Not so well as you, I am convinced," said Dick.

"And so am I," returned Van Tromp gaily.
"Paris! My young friend — you will allow me? —
when you know Paris as I do, you will have seen
Strange Things. I say no more ; all I say is, Strange
Things. We are men of the world, you and I, and
in Paris, in the heart of civilised existence. This
is an opportunity, Mr. Naseby. Let us dine. Let
me show you where to dine."

Dick consented. On the way to dinner the
Admiral showed him where to buy gloves, and made
him buy them ; where to buy cigars, and made him
buy a vast store, some of which he obligingly accepted.
At the restaurant he showed him what to order, with
surprising consequences in the bill. What he made
that night by his percentages it would be hard to
estimate. And all the while Dick smilingly consented,
understanding well that he was being done, but taking
his losses in the pursuit of character as a hunter
sacrifices his dogs. As for the Strange Things, the
reader will be relieved to hear that they were no
stranger than might have been expected, and he may
find things quite as strange without the expense of
a Van Tromp for guide. Yet he was a guide of no
mean order, who made up for the poverty of what he
had to show by a copious, imaginative commentary.

"And such," said he, with a hiccup, "such is
Paris."

THE STORY OF A LIE 121

" Pooh ! " said Dick, who was tired of the perform-
ance.

The Admiral hung an ear, and looked up sidelong
with a glimmer of suspicion.

" Good night," said Dick; " I'm tired."

"So English!" cried Van Tromp, clutching him
by the hand. "So English! So blast 1 Such a
charming companion ! Let me see you home."

"Look here," returned Dick, "I have said good
night, and now I'm going. You're an amusing old
boy: I like you, -in a sense; but here's an end of it
for to-night. Not another cigar, not another grog,
not another percentage out of me."

"I beg your pardon!" cried the Admiral with
dignity.

"Tut, man!" said Dick; "you're not offended;
you're a man of the world, I thought. I've been
studying you, and it's over. Have I not paid for
the lesson.? Au revoir"

Van Tromp laughed gaily, shook hands up to the
elbows, hoped cordially they would meet again and
that often, but looked after Dick as he departed with
a tremor of indignation. After that they two not
unfrequently fell in each other's way, and Dick would
often treat the old boy to breakfast on a moderate
scale and in a restaurant of his own selection. Often,
too, he would lend Van Tromp the matter of a pound,
in view of that gentleman's contemplated departure
for Australia; there would be a scene of farewell
almost touching in character, and a week or a month
later they would meet on the same boulevard without
surprise or embarrassment. And in the meantime

122 TALES AND FANTASIES

Dick learned more about his acquaintance on all
sides : heard of his yacht, his chaise and four, his
brief season of celebrity amid a more confiding popu-
lation, his daughter, of whom he loved to whimper in
his cups, his sponging, parasitical, nameless way of
life; and with each new detail something that was
not merely interest nor yet altogether affection grew
up in his mind towards this disreputable stepson of
the arts. Ere he left Paris, Van Tromp was one of
those whom he entertained to a farewell supper ; and
the old gentleman made the speeoh of the evening,
and then fell below the table, weeping, smiling,
paralysed.

CHAPTER II

A LETTER TO THE PAPERS

OLD Mr. Naseby had the sturdy, untutored nature
of the upper middle class. The universe seemed
plain to him. " The thing's right," he would say, or
" the thing's wrong " ; and there was an end of it.
There was a contained, prophetic energy in his utter-
ances, even on the slightest affairs; he saw the
damned thing ; if you did not, it must be from per-
versity of will ; and this sent the blood to his head.
Apart from this, which made him an exacting com-
panion, he was one of the most upright, hot-tempered,
hot-headed old gentlemen in England. Florid, with
white hair, the face of an old Jupiter, and the figure
of an old fox-hunter, he enlivened the vale of Thyme
from end to end on his big, cantering chestnut.
He had a hearty respect for Dick as a lad of parts.

THE STORY OF A LIE 123

Dick had a respect for his father as the best of men,
tempered by the politic revolt of a youth who has to
see to his own independence. Whenever the pair
argued, they came to an open rupture; and argu-
ments were frequent, for they were both positive, and
both loved the work of the intelligence. It was a
treat to hear Mr. Naseby defending the Church of
England in a volley of oaths, or supporting ascetic
morals with an enthusiasm not entirely innocent ot
port wine. Dick used to wax indignant, and none
the less so because, as his father was a skilful dis-
putant, he found himself not seldom in the wrong.
On these occasions, he would redouble in energy,
and declare that black was white, and blue yellow,
with much conviction and heat of manner; but in
the morning such a licence of debate weighed upon
him like a crime, and he would seek out his father,
where he walked before breakfast on a terrace over-
looking all the vale of Thyme.

"I have to apologise, sir, for last night — " he
would begin.

"Of course you have," the old gentleman would
cut in cheerfully. " You spoke like a fool. Say no
more about it."

"You do not understand me, sir. I refer to a
particular point. I confess there is much force in
your argument from the doctrine of possibilities."

" Of course there is," returned his father. " Come
down and look at the stables. Only/' he would add,
" bear this in mind, and do remember that a man of
my age and experience knows more about what he is
saying than a raw boy."

124 TALES AND FANTASIES

He would utter the word " boy " even more offen-
sively than the average of fathers, and the light way
in which he accepted these apologies cut Richard to
the heart. The latter drew slighting comparisons,
and remembered that he was the only one who ever
apologised. This gave him a high station in his own
esteem, and thus contributed indirectly to his better
behaviour; for he was scrupulous as well as high-
spirited, and prided himself on nothing more than on
a just submission.

So things went on until the famous occasion
when Mr. Naseby, becoming engrossed in securing
the election of a sound party candidate to Parlia-
ment, wrote a flaming letter to the papers. The
letter had about every demerit of party letters in
general; it was expressed with the energy of a
believer ; it was personal ; it was a little more than
half unfair, and about a quarter untrue. The old
man did not mean to say what was untrue, you may
be sure ; but he had rashly picked up gossip, as his
prejudice suggested, and now rashly launched it on
the public with the sanction of his name.

" The Liberal candidate," he concluded, " is thus
a public turncoat. Is that the sort of man we want ?
He has been given the lie, and has swallowed the
insult. Is that the sort of man we want ? I answer,
No ! With all the force of my conviction, I answer,
No!"

And then he signed and dated the letter with an
amateur's pride, and looked to be famous by the
morrow.

Dick, who had heard nothing of the matter, was

THE STORY OF A LIE 125

up first on that inauspicious day, and took the journal
to an arbour in the garden. He found his father's
manifesto in one column ; and in another a leading
article. "No one that we are aware of," ran the
article, "had consulted Mr. Naseby on the subject,
but if he had been appealed to by the whole body of
electors, his letter would be none the less ungenerous
and unjust to Mr. Dalton. We do not choose to
give the lie to Mr. Naseby, for we are too well aware
of the consequences ; but we shall venture instead to
print the facts of both cases referred to by this red-
hot partisan in another portion of our issue. Mr.
Naseby is of course a large proprietor in our neigh-
bourhood ; but fidelity to facts, decent feeling, and
English grammar, are all of them qualities more

important than the possession of land. Mr. is

doubtless a great man ; in his large gardens and
that half-mile of greenhouses, where he has probably
ripened his intellect and temper, he may say what he
will to his hired vassals, but (as the Scotch say) —

•here
He mauna think to domineer.'

Liberalism," continued the anonymous journalist, " is
of too free and sound a growth," &c.

Richard Naseby read the whole thing from begin-
ning to end; and a crushing shame fell upon his
spirit. His father had played the fool ; he had gone
out noisily to war, and come back with confusion.
The moment that his trumpets sounded, he had been
disgracefully unhorsed. There was no question as to

126 TALES AND FANTASIES

the facts ; they were one and all against the Squire.
Richard would have given his ears to have suppressed
the issue ; but as that could not be done, he had his
horse saddled, and furnishing himself with a con-
venient staff, rode off at once to Thymebury.

The editor was at breakfast in a large, sad apart-
ment. The absence of furniture, the extreme mean-
ness of the meal, and the haggard, bright-eyed, con-
sumptive look of the culprit, unmanned our hero;
but he clung to his stick, and was stout and war-
like.

" You wrote the article in this morning's paper ? ''
he demanded.

"You are young Mr. Naseby? I published it,"
replied the editor, rising.

" My father is an old man," said Richard ; and
then with an outburst, "And a damned sight finer
fellow than either you or Dalton ! " He stopped and
swallowed; he was determined that all shou!4 go
with regularity. " I have but one question to put to
you, sir," he resumed. " Granted that my father was
misinformed, would it not have been more decent to
withhold the letter and communicate with him in
private ? "

" Believe me," returned the editor, " that alterna-
tive was not open to me. Mr. Naseby told me
in a note that he had sent his letter to three other
journals, and in fact threatened me with what he
called exposure if I kept it back from mine. I am
really concerned at what has happened ; I sympathise
and approve of your emotion, young gentleman ; but
the attack on Mr. Dalton was gross, very gross, and

THE STORY OF A LIE 127

I had no choice but to offer him my columns to
reply. Party has its duties, sir," added the scribe,
kindling, as one who should propose a sentiment;
"and the attack was gross."

Richard stood for half a minute digesting the
answer; and then the god of fair play came upper-
most in his heart, and murmuring " Good morning,"
he made his escape into the street.

His horse was not hurried on the way home, and
he was late for breakfast. The Squire was standing
with his back to the fire in a state bordering on
apoplexy, his fingers violently knitted under his coat
tails. As Richard came in, he opened and shut his
mouth like a cod-fish, and his eyes protruded.

" Have you seen that, sir ? " he cried, nodding
towards the paper.

" Yes, sir," said Richard.

" Oh, you've read it, have you ? "

" Yes, I have read it," replied Richard, looking at
his foot.

" Well," demanded the old gentleman, " and what
have you to say to it, sir ? "

" You seem to have been misinformed," said Dick.

"Well? What then? Is your mind so sterile,
sir ? Have you not a word of comment ? no
proposal ? "

" I feai; sir, you must apologise to Mr. Dalton.
It would be more handsome, indeed it would be only
just, and a free acknowledgment would go far — n
Richard paused, no language appearing delicate
enough to suit the case.

"That is a suggestion which should have come

128 TALES AND FANTASIES

from me, sir," roared the father. "It is out of
place upon your lips. It is not the thought of a
loyal son. Why, sir, if my father had been plunged
in such deplorable circumstances, I should have
thrashed the editor of that vile sheet within an inch
of his life. I should have thrashed the man, sir.
It would have been the action of an ass; but it
would have shown that I had the blood and the
natural affections of a man. Son? You are no
son, no son of mine, sir ! "

" Sir ! " said Dick.

" I'll tell you what you are, sir," pursued the
Squire. " You're a Benthamite. I disown you.
Your mother would have died for shame; there
was no modern cant about your mother ; she
thought — she said to me, sir — I'm glad she's in her
grave, Dick Naseby. Misinformed! Misinformed,
sir? Have you no loyalty, no spring, no natural
affections ? Are you clockwork, hey ? Away ! This
is no place for you. Away ! " (waving his hands in
the air). " Go away ! Leave me ! "

At this moment Dick beat a retreat in a disarray
of nerves, a whistling and clamour of his own arteries,
and in short in such a final bodily disorder as made
him alike incapable of speech or hearing. And in
the midst of all this turmoil, a sense of unpardonable
injustice remained graven in his memory. ,

THE STORY OF A LIE 129

CHAPTER III
IN THE ADMIRAL'S NAME

THERE was no return to the subject. Dick and his
father were henceforth on terms of coldness. The
upright old gentleman grew more upright when he
met his son, buckrammed with immortal anger; he
asked after Dick's health, and discussed the weather
and the crops with an appalling courtesy; his pro-
nunciation was point-device, his voice was distant,
distinct, and sometimes almost trembling with sup-
pressed indignation.

As for Dick, it seemed to him as if his life had
come abruptly to an end. He came out of his
theories and clevernesses ; his premature man-of-the-
worldness, on which he had prided himself on his
travels, "shrank like a thing ashamed" before this
real sorrow. Pride, wounded honour, pity, and re-
spect tussled together daily in his heart; and now
he was within an ace of throwing himself upon his
father's mercy, and now of slipping forth at night
and coming back no more to Naseby House. He
suffered from the sight of his father, nay, even from
the neighbourhood of this familiar valley, where
every corner had its legend, and he was besieged
with memories of childhood. If he fled into a new
land, and among none but strangers, he might escape
his destiny, who knew ? and begin again light-
heartedly. From that chief peak of the hills, that
now and then, like an uplifted finger, shone in an

i

130 TALES AND FANTASIES

arrow of sunlight through the broken clouds, the
shepherd in clear weather might perceive the shining
of the sea. There, he thought, was hope. But his
heart failed him when he saw the Squire; and he
remained. His fate was not that of the voyager by
sea and land; he was to travel in the spirit, and
begin his journey sooner than he supposed.

For it chanced one day that his walk led him
into a portion of the uplands which was almost
unknown to him. Scrambling through some rough
woods, he came out upon a moorland reaching
towards the hills. A few lofty Scotch firs grew hard
by upon a knoll ; a clear fountain near the foot
of the knoll sent up a miniature streamlet which
meandered in the heather. A shower had just
skimmed by, but now the sun shone brightly, and
the air smelt of the pines and the grass. On a stone
under the trees sat a young lady sketching. We
have learned to think of women in a sort of symbolic
transfiguration, based on clothes ; and one of the
readiest ways in which we conceive our mistress is
as a composite thing, principally petticoats. But
humanity has triumphed over clothes ; the look,
the touch of a dress has become alive; and the
woman who stitched herself into these material
integuments has now permeated right through and
gone out to the tip of her skirt. It was only a black
dress that caught Dick Naseby's eye ; but it took
possession of his mind, and all other thoughts de-
parted. He drew near, and the girl turned round.
Her face startled him ; it was a face he wanted ; and
he took it in at once like breathing air.

THE STORY OF A LIE 131

" I beg your pardon," he said, taking off his hat,
" you are sketching."

" Oh ! " she exclaimed, " for my own amusement.
I despise the thing."

" Ten to one, you do yourself injustice," returnee1
Dick. " Besides, it's a freemasonry. I sketch myself,
and you know what that implies."

"No. What? "she asked.

"Two things,'1 he answered. "First, that I am
no very difficult critic; and second, that I have a
right to see your picture."

She covered the block with both her hands. " Oh
no," she said ; " I am ashamed."

11 Indeed, I might give you a hint," said Dick.
" Although no artist myself, I have known many ;
in Paris I had many for friends, and used to prowl
among studios."

"In Paris?" she cried, with a leap of light into her
eyes. " Did you ever meet Mr. Van Tromp ? "

"I? Yes. Why, you're not the Admiral's
daughter, are you?"

"The Admiral? Do they call him that?" she
cried. " Oh, how nice, how nice of them ! It is the
younger men who call him so, is it not ? "

"Yes," said Dick, somewhat heavily.

" You can understand now," she said, with an
unspeakable accent of contented noble-minded pride,
" why it is I do not choose to show my sketch. Van
Tromp's daughter! The Admiral's daughter! J
delight in that name. The Admiral! And so you
know my father ? "

"Well," said Dick, "I met him often; we were

i32 TALES AND FANTASIES

even intimate. He may have mentioned my name —
Naseby."

" He writes so little. He is so busy, so devoted
to his art ! I have had a half wish," she added,
laughing, " that my father was a plainer man, whom I
could help — to whom I could be a credit ; but only
sometimes, you know, and with only half my heart.
For a great painter ! You have seen his works ? "

"I have seen some of them," returned Dick;
"they — they are very nice."

She laughed aloud. "Nice?" she repeated. "I
see you don't care much for art."

" Not much," he admitted ; " but I know that many
people are glad to buy Mr. Van Tromp's pictures."

" Call him the Admiral ! " she cried. " It sounds
kindly and familiar ; and I like to think that he is
appreciated and looked up to by young painters.
He has not always been appreciated ; he had a cruel
life for many years ; and when I think " — there were
tears in her eyes — " when I think of that, I feel
inclined to be a fool," she broke off. " And now I
shall go home. You have filled me full of happiness;
for think, Mr. Naseby, I have not seen my father
since I was six years old; and yet he is in my
thoughts all day ! You must come and call on me ;
my aunt will be delighted, I am sure ; and then you
will tell me all — all about my father, will you not ? "

Dick helped her to get her sketching traps to-
gether; and when all was ready, she gave Dick her
hand and a frank return of pressure.

" You are my father's friend," she said ; " we shall be
great friends too. You must come and see me soon."

THE STORY OF A LIE 133

Then she was gone down the hillside at a run;
and Dick stood by himself in a state of some bewilder-
ment and even distress. There were elements of
laughter in the business; but the black dress, and
the face that belonged to it, and the hand that he
had held in his, inclined him to a serious view.
What was he, under the circumstances, called upon
to do ? Perhaps to avoid the girl ? Well, he would
think about that. Perhaps to break the truth to her ?
Why, ten to one, such was her infatuation, he would
fail. Perhaps to keep up the illusion, to colour the
raw facts; to help her to false ideas, while yet not
plainly stating falsehoods ? Well, he would see about
that ; he would also see about avoiding the girl. He
saw about this last so well, that the next afternoon
beheld him on his way to visit her.

In the mean time the girl had gone straight home,
light as a bird, tremulous with joy, to the little cottage
where she lived alone with a maiden aunt; and to
that lady, a grim, sixty-years-old Scotchwoman, with a
nodding head, communicated news of her encounter
and invitation.

" A friend of his ? " cried the aunt. " What like is
he ? What did ye say was his name ? "

She was dead silent, and stared at the old woman
darkling. Then very slowly, "I said he was my
father's friend ; I have invited him to my house, and
come he shall," she said ; and with that she walked
off to her room, where she sat staring at the wall all
the evening. Miss M'Glashan, for that was the aunt's
name, read a large Bible in the kitchen with some of
the joys of martyrdom.

i34 TALES AND FANTASIES

It was perhaps half-past three when Dick presented
himself, rather scrupulously dressed, before the cottage
door; he knocked, and a voice bade him enter.
The kitchen, which opened directly off the garden,
was somewhat darkened by foliage ; but he could see
her as she approached from the far end to meet him.
This second sight of her suprised him. Her strong
black brows spoke of temper easily aroused and hard
to quiet; her mouth was small, nervous, and weak;
there was something dangerous and sulky underlying,
in her nature, much that was honest, compassionate,
and even noble.

** My father's name," she said, "has made you very
welcome."

And she gave him her hand, with a sort of curtsy.
It was a pretty greeting, although somewhat mannered;
and Dick felt himself among the gods. She led him
through the kitchen to a parlour, and presented him
to Miss M'Glashan.

" Esther," said the aunt, " see and make Mr. Naseby
his tea."

And as soon as the girl was gone upon this hospit-
able intent, the old woman crossed the room and
came quite near to Dick as if in menace.

" Ye know that man ? " she asked in an imperious
whisper.

« Mr. Van Tromp?" said Dick. "Yes, I know him."

" Well, and what brings ye here?" she said. "I
couldn't save the mother — her that's dead— but the
bairn ! " She had a note in her voice that filled
poor Dick with consternation. "Man," she went
on, " what is it now ? Is it money ? "

THE STORY OF A LIE 135

" My dear lady," said Dick, " I think you mis-
interpret my position. I am young Mr. Naseby of
Naseby House. My acquaintance with Mr. Van
Tromp is really very slender ; I am only afraid that
Miss Van Tromp has exaggerated our intimacy in her
own imagination. I know positively nothing of his
private affairs, and do not care to know. I met him
casually in Paris — that is all."

Miss M4Glashan drew a long breath. " In Paris ? "
she said. " Well, and what do you think of him ?
— what do ye think of him?" she repeated, with a
different scansion, as Richard, who had not much
taste fop such a question, kept her waiting for an
answer.

" I found him a very agreeable companion," he said.

" Ay," said she, " did ye ! And how does he win
his bread?"

" I fancy," he gasped, " that Mr. Van Tromp has
many generous friends."

" I'll warrant ! " she sneered ; and before Dick
could find more to say, she was gone from the room.

Esther returned with the tea-things, and sat down.

" Now," she said cosily, " tell me all about my
father."

"He" — stammered Dick, "he is a very agreeable
companion."

" I shall begin to think it is more than you are,
Mr. Naseby," she said, with a laugh. " I am his
daughter, you forget. Begin at the beginning, and
tell me all you have seen of him, all he said and all
you answered/ You must have met somewhere;
begin with that."

136 TALES AND FANTASIES

So with that he began : how he had found the
Admiral painting in a cafe ; how his art so possessed
him that he could not wait till he got home to — well,
to dash off his idea ; how (this in reply to a question)
his idea consisted of a cock crowing and two hens
eating corn ; how he was fond of cocks and hens ;
how this did not lead him to neglect more ambitious
forms of art ; how he had a picture in his studio of a
Greek subject which was said to be remarkable from
several points of view ; how no one had seen it nor
knew the precise site of the studio in which it was
being vigorously though secretly confected ; how (in
answer to a suggestion) this shyness was common to
the Admiral, Michelangelo, and others ; how they
(Dick and Van Tromp) had struck up an acquaint-
ance at once, and dined together that same night ;
how he (the Admiral) had once given money to a
beggar; how he spoke with effusion of his little
daughter ; how he had once borrowed money to send
her a doll — a trait worthy of Newton, she being then
in her nineteenth year at least ; how, if the doll never
arrived (which it appeared it never did), the trait was
only more characteristic of the highest order of
creative intellect ; how he was — no, not beautiful —
striking, yes, Dick would go so far, decidedly striking
in appearance ; how his boots were made to lace and
his coat was black, not cut-away, a frock ; and so on,
and so on by the yard. It was astonishing how few
lies were necessary. After all, people exaggerated
the difficulty of life. A little steering, just a touch
of the rudder now and then, and with a willing
listener there is no limit to the domain of equivocal

THE STORY OF A LIE 137

speech. Sometimes Miss M'Glashan made a freez-
ing sojourn in the parlour; and then the task seemed
unaccountably more difficult ; but to Esther, who was
all eyes and ears, her face alight with interest, his
stream of language flowed without break or stumble,
and his mind was ever fertile in ingenious evasions
and

What an afternoon it was for Esther !

" Ah ! " she said at last, " it's good to hear all this !
My aunt, you should know, is narrow and too religi-
ous ; she cannot understand an artist's life. It does
not frighten me," she added grandly ; " I am an
artist's daughter."

With that speech, Dick consoled himself for his
imposture ; she was not deceived so grossly, after all ;
and then if a fraud, was not the fraud piety itself? —
and what could be more obligatory than to keep alive
in the heart of a daughter that filial trust and honour
which, even although misplaced, became her like a
jewel of the mind ? There might be another thought,
a shade of cowardice, a selfish desire to please ; poor
Dick was merely human ; and what would you have
had him do ?

CHAPTER IV

ESTHER ON THE FILIAL RELATION

A MONTH later Dick and Esther met at the stile
beside the cross-roads; had there been any one to
see them but the birds and summer insects, it would
have been remarked that they met after a different
fashion from the day before. Dick took her in his

138 TALES AND FANTASIES

arms, and their lips were set together for a long
while. Then he held her at arm's-length, and they
looked straight into each other's eyes.

" Esther ! " he said ; you should have heard his
voice !

" Dick ! " said she.

" My darling ! "

It was some time before they started for their
walk; he kept an arm about her, and their sides
were close together as they walked; the sun, the
birds, the west wind running among the trees, a
pressure, a look, the grasp tightening round a single
finger, these things stood them in lieu of thought
and filled their hearts with joy. The path they
were following led them through a wood of pine-
trees carpeted with heather and blue-berry, and
upon this pleasant carpet, Dick, not without some
seriousness, made her sit down.

" Esther ! " he began, " there is something you
ought to know. You know my father is a rich man,
and you would think, now that we love each other,
we might marry when we pleased. But I fear, darling,
we may have long to wait, and shall want all our
courage."

" I have courage for anything," she said, " I have
all I want ; with you and my father, I am so well off,
and waiting is made so happy, that I could wait a
lifetime and not weary."

He had a sharp pang at the mention of the
Admiral. " Hear me out," he continued. " I ought
to have told you this before; but it is a thought I
shrink from; if it were possible, I should not tell

THE STORY OF A LIE 139

you even now. My poor father and I are scarce
on speaking terms."

" Your father ! " she repeated, turning pale.

" It must sound strange to you ; but yet I cannot
think I am to blame," he said. " I will tell you how
it happened."

" Oh Dick ! " she said, when she had heard him to
an end, " how brave you are, and how proud. Yet
I would not be proud with a father. I would tell
him all."

" What ! " cried Dick, " go in months after, and
brag that I had meant to thrash the man, and then
didn't. And why? Because my father had made
a bigger ass of himself than I supposed. My dear,
that's nonsense."

She winced at his words and drew away. " But
when that is all he asks," she pleaded. " If he only
knew that you had felt that impulse, it would make
him so proud and happy. He would see you were
his own son after all, and had the same thoughts and
the same chivalry of spirit. And then you did your-
self injustice when you spoke just now. It was be-
cause the editor was weak and poor and excused him-
self, that you repented your first determination. Had
he been a big red man, with whiskers, you would have
beaten him — you know you would — if Mr. Naseby
had been ten times more committed. Do you think,
if you can tell it to me, and I understand at once,
that it would be more difficult to tell it to your own
father, or that he would not be more ready to sympa-
thise with you than I am ? And I love you, Dick •
but then he is your father."

1 40 TALES AND FANTASIES

" My dear," said Dick desperately, " you do not
understand; you do not know what it is to be
treated with daily want of comprehension and daily
small injustices, through childhood and boyhood
and manhood, until you despair of a hearing, until
the thing rides you like a nightmare, until you almost
hate the sight of the man you love, and who's your
father after all. In short, Esther, you don't know
what it is to have a father, and that's what blinds
you."

" I see," she said musingly, " you mean that I am
fortunate in my father. But I am not so fortunate
after all ; you forget, I do not know him ; it is you
who know him ; he is already more your father than
mine." And here she took his hand. Dick's heart
had grown as cold as ice. "But I am sorry for you,
too," she continued, " it must be very sad and
lonely."

"You misunderstand me," said Dick chokingly.
" My father is the best man I know in all this world ;
he is worth a hundred of me, only he doesn't under-
stand me, and he can't be made to."

There was a silence for a while. " Dick," she
began again, " I am going to ask a favour, it's
the first since you said you loved me. May I see
your father — see him pass, I mean, where he will
not observe me ? "

11 Why ? " asked Dick.

" It is a fancy ; you forget, I am romantic about
fathers."

The hint was enough for Dick ; he consented with
haste, and full of hang-dog penitence and disgust,

THE STORY OF A LIE 141

took her down by a backway and planted her in
the shrubbery, whence she might see the Squire
ride by to dinner. There they both sat silent, but
holding hands, for nearly half-an-hour. At last the
trotting of a horse sounded in the distance, the park
gates opened with a clang, and then Mr. Naseby
appeared, with stooping shoulders and a heavy,
bilious countenance, languidly rising to the trot.
Esther recognised him at once ; she had often seen
him before, though, with her huge indifference for
all that lay outside the circle of her love, she had
never so much as wondered who he was ; but now
she recognised him, and found him ten years older,
leaden and springless, and stamped by an abiding
sorrow.

" Oh Dick, Dick ! " she said, and the tears began
to shine upon her face as she hid it in his bosom ;
his own fell thickly too. They had a sad walk home,
and that night, full of love and good counsel, Dick
exerted every art to please his father, to convince him
of his respect and affection, to heal up this breach of
kindness, and reunite two hearts. But alas ! the
Squire was sick and peevish ; he had been all day
glooming over Dick's estrangement — for so he put it
to himself, and now with growls, cold words, and the
cold shoulder, he beat off all advances, and entrenched
himself in a just resentment.

i42 TALES AND FANTASIES

CHAPTER V

THE PRODIGAL FATHER MAKES HIS DEBUT
AT HOME

THAT took place upon a Tuesday. On the Thursday
following, as Dick was walking by appointment, earlier
than usual, in the direction of the cottage, he was
appalled to meet in the lane a fly from Thymebury,
containing the human form of Miss M'Glashan. The
lady did not deign to remark him in her passage;
her face was suffused with tears, and expressed much
concern for the packages by which she was surrounded.
He stood still, and asked himself what this circum-
stance might portend. It was so beautiful a day
that he was loth to forecast evil, yet something must
perforce have happened at the cottage, and that of a
decisive nature; for here was Miss M'Glashan on
her travels, with a small patrimony in brown paper
parcels, and the old lady's bearing implied hot battle
and unqualified defeat. Was the house to be closed
against him? Was Esther left alone, or had some
new protector made his appearance from among the
millions of Europe? It is the character of love to
loathe the near relatives of the loved one ; chapters
in the history of the human race have justified this
feeling, and the conduct of uncles, in particular, has
frequently met with censure from the independent
novelist. Miss M'Glashan was now seen in the rosy
colours of regret ; whoever succeeded her, Dick felt
the change would be for the worse. He hurried

THE STORY OK A LIE 143

forward in this spirit; his anxiety grew upon him
with every step; as he entered the garden a voice
fell upon his ear, and he was once more arrested,
not this time by doubt, but by indubitable certainty
of ill.

The thunderbolt had fallen ; the Admiral was
here.

Dick would have retreated, in the panic terror of
the moment ; but Esther kept a bright look-out when
her lover was expected. In a twinkling she was by
his side, brimful of news and pleasure, too glad to
notice his embarrassment, and in one of those golden
transports of exultation which transcend not only
words but caresses. She took him by the end of the
fingers (reaching forward to take them, for her great
preoccupation was to save time), she drew him to-
wards her, pushed him past her in the door, and
planted him face to face with Mr. Van Tromp, in a
suit of French country velveteens and with a remark-
able carbuncle on his nose. Then, as though this
was the end of what she could endure in the way of
joy, Esther turned and ran out of the room.

The two men remained looking at each other
with some confusion on both sides. Van Tromp
was naturally the first to recover; he put out his
hand with a fine gesture.

"And you know my little lass, my Esther?" he
said. "This is pleasant; this is what I have con-
ceived of home. A strange word for the old rover ;
but we all have a taste for home and the home-like,
disguise it how we may. It has brought me here,
Mr. Naseby," he concluded, with an intonation that

144 TALES AND FANTASIES

would have made his fortune on the stage, so just,
so sad, so dignified, so like a man of the world
and a philosopher, "and you see a man who is
content."

" I see," said Dick.

" Sit down," continued the parasite, setting the ex-
ample. " Fortune has gone against me. (I am just
sirrupping a little brandy — after my journey.) I was
going down, Mr. Naseby; between you and me, I
was decavt ; I borrowed fifty francs, smuggled my
valise past the concierge — a work of considerable
tact — and here I am ! "

"Yes," said Dick; "and here you are." He was
quite idiotic.

Esther, at this moment, re-entered the room.

" Are you glad to see him ? " she whispered in his
ear, the pleasure in her voice almost bursting through
the whisper into song.

" Oh yes," said Dick, " very."

" I knew you would be," she replied ; " I told him
how you loved him."

" Help yourself," said the Admiral, " help your-
self; and let us drink to a new existence."

"To a new existence," repeated Dick; and he
raised the tumbler to his lips, but set it down un-
tasted. He had had enough of novelties for one
day.

Esther was sitting on a stool beside her father's
feet, holding her knees in her arms, and looking with
pride from one to the other of her two visitors. Her
eyes were so bright that you were never sure if there
were tears in them or not ; little voluptuous shivers

THE STORY OF A LIE 145

ran about her body ; sometimes she nestled her chin
into her throat, sometimes threw back her head, with
ecstasy ; in a word, she was in that state when it is
said of people that they cannot contain themselves
for happiness. It would be hard to exaggerate the
agony of Richard.

And, in the mean time, Van Tromp ran on inter-
minably.

"I never forget a friend," said he, "nor yet an
enemy : of the latter, I never had but two — myself and
the public ; and I fancy I have had my vengeance
pretty freely out of both." He chuckled. "But
those days are done. Van Tromp is no more. He
was a man who had successes ; I believe you knew I
had successes — to which we shall refer no farther,"
pulling down his neckcloth with a smile. "That
man exists no more : by an exercise of will I have
destroyed him. There is something like it in the
poets. First, a brilliant and conspicuous career —
the observed, I may say, of all observers, includ-
ing the bum-bailie : and then, presto ! a quiet, sly,
old, rustic bonhomme, cultivating roses. In Paris,
Mr. Naseby "

" Call him Richard, father," said Esther.

" Richard, if he will allow me. Indeed, we are
old friends, and now near neighbours ; and, a propos>
how are we off for neighbours, Richard ? The cottage
stands, I think, upon your father's land — a family
which I respect— and the wood, I understand, is
Lord Trevanion's. Not that I care; I am an old
Bohemian. I have cut society with a cut direct; I
cut it when I was prosperous, and now I reap my

K

146 TALES AND FANTASIES

reward, and can cut it with dignity in my declension.
These are our little amours propres, my daughter:
your father must respect himself. Thank you, yes ;
just a leetle, leetle, tiny — thanks, thanks; you
spoil me. But, as I was saying, Richard, or was
about to say, my daughter has been allowed to rust ;
her aunt was a mere duenna ; hence, in parenthesis,
Richard, her distrust of me ; my nature and that of
the duenna are poles asunder — poles ! But, now
that I am here, now that I have given up the fight,
and live henceforth for one only of my works — I
have the modesty to say it is my best — my daughter
— well, we shall put all that to rights. The neigh-
bours, Richard ? "

Dick was understood to say that there were many
good families in the Vale of Thyme.

" You shall introduce us," said the Admiral.

Dick's shirt was wet ; he made a lumbering excuse
to go ; which Esther explained to herself by a fear of
intrusion, and so set down to the merit side of Dick's
account, while she proceeded to detain him.

" Before our walk ? " she cried. " Never ! I must
have my walk."

" Let us all go," said the Admiral, rising.

" You do not know that you are wanted," she cried,
leaning on his shoulder with a caress. " I might
wish to speak to my old friend about my new father.
But you shall come to-day, you shall do all you
want ; I have set my heart on spoiling you."

" I will just take one drop more," said the Admiral,
stooping to help himself to brandy. " It is surpris-
ing how this journey has fatigued me. But I am

THE STORY OF A LIE 147

growing old, I am growing old, I am growing old,
and — I regret to add — bald."

He cocked a white wide-awake coquettishly upon
his head — the habit of the lady-killer clung to him ;
and Esther had already thrown on her hat, and
was ready, while he was still studying the result
in a mirror: the carbuncle had somewhat painfully
arrested his attention.

"We are papa now; we must be respectable," he
said to Dick, in explanation of his dandyism : and
then he went to a bundle and chose himself a staff.
Where were the elegant canes of his Parisian epoch ?
This was a support for age, and designed for rustic
scenes. Dick began to see and appreciate the man's
enjoyment in a new part, when he saw how carefully
he had " made it up." He had invented a gait for
this first country stroll with his daughter, which was
admirably in key. He walked with fatigue ; he
leaned upon the staff; he looked round him with
a sad, smiling sympathy on all that he beheld; he
even asked the name of a plant, and rallied himself
gently for an old town bird, ignorant of nature.
11 This country life will make me young again," he
sighed. They reached the top of the hill towards
the first hour of evening; the sun was descending
heaven, the colour had all drawn into the west ; the
hills were modelled in their least contour by the soft,
slanting shine ; and the wide moorlands, veined with
glens and hazelwoods, ran west and north in a hazy
glory of light. Then the painter wakened in Van
Tromp.

" Gad, Dick," he cried, " what value 1 "

148 TALES AND FANTASIES

An ode in four hundred lines would not have
seemed so touching to Esther; her eyes filled with
happy tears ; yes, here was the father of whom she
had dreamed, whom Dick had described; simple,
enthusiastic, unworldly, kind, a painter at heart, and
a fine gentleman in manner.

And just then the Admiral perceived a house by
the wayside, and something depending over the
house door which might be construed as a sign by
the hopeful and thirsty.

" Is that," he asked, pointing with his stick, " an
inn ? "

There was a marked change in his voice, as
though he attached importance to the inquiry :
Esther listened, hoping she should hear wit or
wisdom.

Di~«. said it was.

" You know it ? " inquired the Admiral.

" I have passed it a hundred times, but that is
all," replied Dick.

" Ah," said Van Tromp, with a smile, and shaking
his head ; " you are not an old campaigner ; you
have the world to learn. Now I, you see, find an
inn so very near my own home, and my first thought
is — my neighbours. I shall go forward and make
my neighbours' acquaintance ; no, you needn't come ;
I shall not be a moment."

And he walked off briskly towards the inn, leaving
Dick alone with Esther on the road.

" Dick," she exclaimed, " I am so glad to get a
word with you ; I am so happy, I have such a
thousand things to say; and I want you to do me

THE STORY OF A LIE 149

a favour. Imagine, he has come without a paint-
box, without an easel ; and I want him to have all.
I want you to get them for me in Thymebury. You
saw, this moment, how his heart turned to painting.
They can't live without it," she added ; meaning
perhaps Van Tromp and Michelangelo.

Up to that moment, she had observed nothing
amiss in Dick's behaviour. She was too happy to
be curious; and his silence, in presence of the
great and good being whom she called her father,
had seemed both natural and praiseworthy. But
now that they were alone, she became conscious of
a barrier between her lover and herself, and alarm
sprang up in her heart.

" Dick," she cried, " you don't love me."

" I do that," he said heartily.

" But you are unhappy ; you are strange ; you —
you are not glad to see my father," she concluded
with a break in her voice.

" Esther," he said, " I tell you that I love you ; if
you love me, you know what that means, and that
all I wish is to see you happy. Do you think I
cannot enjoy your pleasures? Esther, I do. If I
am uneasy, if I am alarmed, if — Oh, believe me,
try and believe in me," he cried, giving up argument
with perhaps a happy inspiration.

But the girl's suspicions were aroused ; and though
she pressed the matter no farther (indeed, her father
was already seen returning), it by no means left her
thoughts. At one moment she simply resented the
selfishness of a man who had obtruded his dark
looks and passionate language on her joy ; for there

150 TALES AND FANTASIES

is nothing that a woman can less easily forgive than
the language of a passion which, even if only for the
moment, she does not share. At another, she sus-
pected him of jealousy against her father ; and for
that, although she could see excuses for it, she yet
despised him. And at least, in one way or the
other, here was the dangerous beginning of a separa-
tion between two hearts. Esther found herself at
variance with her sweetest friend; she could no
longer look into his heart and find it written with
the same language as her own ; she could no longer
think of him as the sun which radiated happiness
upon her life, for she had turned to him once, and he
had breathed upon her black and chilly, radiated
blackness and frost. To put the whole matter in
a word, she was beginning, although ever so slightly,
to fall out of love.

CHAPTER VI

THE PRODIGAL FATHER GOES ON FROM
STRENGTH TO STRENGTH

WE will not follow all the steps of the Admiral's
return and installation, but hurry forward towards
the catastrophe, merely chronicling by the way a few
salient incidents, wherein we must rely entirely upon
the evidence of Richard, for Esther to this day has
never opened her mouth upon this trying passage of
her life, and as for the Admiral — well, that naval
officer, although still alive, and now more suitably

THE STORY OF A LIE 151

installed in a seaport town where he has a telescope
and a flag in his front garden, is incapable of throw-
ing the slightest gleam of light upon the affair.
Often and often has he remarked to the present
writer : " If I know what it was all about, sir, I'll
be — " in short, be what I hope he will not. And
then he will look across at his daughter's portrait, a
photograph, shake his head with an amused appear-
ance, and mix himself another grog by way of con-
solation. Once I have heard him go farther, and
express his feelings with regard to Esther in a single
but eloquent word. " A minx, sir," he said, not in
anger, rather in amusement : and he cordially drank
her health upon the back of it. His worst enemy
must admit him to be a man without malice ; he
never bore a grudge in his life, lacking the necessary
taste and industry of attention.

Yet it was during this obscure period that the
drama was really performed ; and its scene was in the
heart of Esther, shut away from all eyes. Had this
warm, upright, sullen girl been differently used by
destiny, had events come upon her even in a different
succession, for some things lead easily to others, the
whole course of this tale would have been changed,
and Esther never would have run away. As it was,
through a series of acts and words of which we know
but few, and a series of thoughts which any one may
imagine for himself, she was awakened in four days
from the dream of a life.

The first tangible cause of disenchantment was
when Dick brought home a painter's arsenal on
Friday evening. The Admiral was in the chimney-

152 TALES AND FANTASIES

corner, once more " sirrupping " some brandy and
water, and Esther sat at the table at work. They
both came forward to greet the new arrival ; and the
girl, relieving him of his monstrous burthen, pro-
ceeded to display her offerings to her father. Van
Tromp's countenance fell several degrees ; he became
quite querulous.

"God bless me," he said; and then, "I must
really ask you not to interfere, child," in a tone of
undisguised hostility.

*' Father," she said, "forgive me; I knew you had
given up your art "

" Oh yes ! " cried the Admiral ; " I've done with it
to the judgment-day ! "

" Pardon me again," she said firmly, " but I do not,
I cannot think that you are right in this. Suppose
the world is unjust, suppose that no one understands
you, you have still a duty to yourself. And, oh,
don't spoil the pleasure of your coming home to me ;
show me that you can be my father and yet not
neglect your destiny. I am not like some daughters ;
I will not be jealous of your art, and I will try to
understand it."

The situation was odiously farcical. Richard
groaned under it ; he longed to leap forward and
denounce the humbug. And the humbug himself?
Do you fancy he was easier in his mind ? I am sure,
on the other hand, that he was acutely miserable;
and he betrayed his sufferings by a perfectly silly and
undignified access of temper, during which he broke
his pipe in several pieces, threw his brandy and water
in the fire, and employed words which were very plain,

THE STORY OF A LIE 153

although the drift of them was somewhat vague. It
was of very brief duration. Van Tromp was himself
again, and in a most delightful humour within three
minutes of the first explosion.

"I am an old fool," he said frankly. "I was
spoiled when a child. As for you, Esther, you take
after your mother ; you have a morbid sense of duty,
particularly for others ; strive against it, my dear —
strive against it. And as for the pigments, well, I'll
use them, some of these days ; and to show that I'm
in earnest, I'll get Dick here to prepare a canvas."

Dick was put to this menial task forthwith, the
Admiral not even watching how he did, but quite
occupied with another grog and a pleasant vein of
talk.

A little after Esther arose, and making some pre-
text, good or bad, went off to bed. Dick was left
hobbled by the canvas, and was subjected to Van
Tromp for about an hour.

The next day, Saturday, it is believed that little
intercourse took place between Esther and her
father; but towards the afternoon Dick met the
latter returning from the direction of the inn, where
he had struck up quite a friendship with the land-
lord. Dick wondered who paid for these excursions,
and at the thought that the reprobate must get his
pocket-money where he got his board and lodging,
from poor Esther's generosity, he had it almost in his
heart to knock the old gentleman down. He, on his
part, was full of airs and graces and geniality.

" Dear Dick," he said, taking his arm, " this is
neighbourly of you ; it shows your tact to meet me

154 TALES AND FANTASIES

when I had a wish for you. I am in pleasant spirits ;
and it is then that I desire a friend."

" I am glad to hear you are so happy," retorted
Dick bitterly. "There's certainly not much to
trouble you"

" No," assented the Admiral, " not much. I got
out of it in time; and here — well, here everything
pleases me. I am plain in my tastes. A propos, you
have never asked me how I liked my daughter ? "

" No," said Dick roundly ; " I certainly have
not."

" Meaning you will not. And why, Dick ? She is
my daughter, of course ; but then I am a man of the
world and a man of taste, and perfectly qualified to
give an opinion with impartiality — yes, Dick, with
impartiality. Frankly, 1 am not disappointed in her.
She has good looks ; she has them from her mother.
So I may say I chose her looks. She is devoted,
quite devoted to me "

" She is the best woman in the world ! " broke out
Dick.

" Dick," cried the Admiral, stopping short ; " I
have been expecting this. Let us — let us go back to
the ' Trevanion Arms,' and talk this matter out over
a bottle."

u Certainly not," went Dick. "You have had far
too much already."

The parasite was on the point of resenting this ;
but a look at Dick's face, and some recollection of
the terms on which they had stood in Paris, came to
the aid of his wisdom and restrained him.

"As you please," he said; "although I don't

THE STORY OF A LIE 155

know what you mean — nor care. But let us walk, if
you prefer it. You are still a young man ; when you
are my age — But, however, to continue. You
please me, Dick ; you have pleased me from the first ;
and to say truth, Esther is a trifle fantastic, and will
be better when she is married. She has means of
her own, as of course you are aware. They come,
like the looks, from her poor, dear, good creature of
a mother. She was blessed in her mother. I mean
she shall be blessed in her husband, and you are the
man, Dick, you and not another. This very night I
will sound her affections."

Dick stood aghast.

" Mr. Van Tromp, I implore you," he said; "do
what you please with yourself, but, for God's sake,
let your daughter alone."

"It is my duty," replied the Admiral, "and be-
tween ourselves, you rogue, my inclination too. I
am as matchmaking as a dowager. It will be more
discreet for you to stay away to-night. Farewell.
You leave your case in good hands ; I have the tact
of these little matters by heart; it is not my first
attempt."

All arguments were in vain ; the old rascal stuck
to his point ; nor did Richard conceal from himself
how seriously this might injure his prospects, and he
fought hard. Once there came a glimmer of hope.
The Admiral again proposed an adjournment to the
"Trevanion Arms," and when Dick had once more
refused, it hung for a moment in the balance whether
or not the old toper would return there by himself.
Had he done so, of course Dick could have taken to

156 TALES AND FANTASIES

his heels, and warned Esther of what was coming,
and of how it had begun. But the Admiral, after a
pause, decided for the brandy at home, and made off
in that direction.

We have no details of the sounding.

Next day the Admiral was observed in the parish
church, very properly dressed. He found the places,
and joined in response and hymn, as to the manner
born ; and his appearance, as he intended it should,
attracted some attention among the worshippers.
Old Naseby, for instance, had observed him.

"There was a drunken-looking blackguard oppo-
site us in church," he said to his son as they drove
home ; " do you know who he was ? "

"Some fellow — Van Tromp, I believe," said
Dick.

" A foreigner, too ! " observed the Squire.

Dick could not sufficiently congratulate himself on
the escape he had effected. Had the Admiral met
him with his father, what would have been the result ?
And could such a catastrophe be long postponed?
It seemed to him as if the storm were nearly ripe ;
and it was so, more nearly than he thought.

He did not go to the cottage in the afternoon,
withheld by fear and shame; but when dinner was
over at Naseby House, and the Squire had gone off
into a comfortable doze, Dick slipped out of the
room, and ran across country, in part to save time,
in part to save his own courage from growing cold ;
for he now hated the notion of the cottage or the
Admiral, and if he did not hate, at least feared to
think of Esther. He had no clue to her reflections;

THE STORY OF A LIE 157

but he could not conceal from his own heart that he
must have sunk in her esteem, and the spectacle of
her infatuation galled him like an insult.

He knocked and was admitted. The room looked
very much as on his last visit, with Esther at the
table and Van Tromp beside the fire ; but the expres-
sion of the two faces told a very different story. The
girl was paler than usual ; her eyes were dark, the
colour seemed to have faded from round about them,
and her swiftest glance was as intent as a stare. The
appearance of the Admiral, on the other hand, was
rosy, and flabby, and moist ; his jowl hung over his
shirt collar, his smile was loose and wandering, and
he had so far relaxed the natural control of his eyes,
that one of them was aimed inward, as if to watch
the growth of the carbuncle. We are warned against
bad judgments; but the Admiral was certainly not
sober. He made no attempt to rise when Richard
entered, but waved his pipe flightily in the air, and
gave a leer of welcome. Esther took as little notice
of him as might be.

11 Aha ! Dick ! " cried the painter. " I've been to
church ; I have, upon my word. And I saw you
there, though you didn't see me. And I saw a
devilish pretty woman, by Gad. If it were not for
this baldness, and a kind of crapulous air I can't
disguise from myself — if it weren't for this and
that and t'other thing — I — I've forgot what I was
saying. Not that that matters, I've heaps of things
to say. I'm in a communicative vein to-night. I'll
let out all my cats, even unto seventy times seven.
I'm in what I call the stage, and all I desire is a

158 TALES AND FANTASIES

listener, although he were deaf, to be as happy as
N ebuchadn ezzar . "

Of the two hours which followed upon this it
is unnecessary to give more than a sketch. The
Admiral was extremely silly, now and then amusing,
and never really offensive. It was plain that he kept
in view the presence of his daughter, and chose
subjects and a character of language that should not
offend a lady. On almost any other occasion Dick
would have enjoyed the scene. Van Tromp's egotism,
flown with drink, struck a pitch above mere vanity.
He became candid and explanatory ; sought to take
his auditors entirely into his confidence, and tell
them his inmost conviction about himself. Between
his self-knowledge, which was considerable, and his
vanity, which was immense, he had created a strange
hybrid animal, and called it by his own name. How
he would plume his feathers over virtues which would
have gladdened the heart of Caesar or St. Paul ; and
anon, complete his own portrait with one of those
touches of pitiless realism which the satirist so often
seeks in vain.

"Now, there's Dick," he said, "he's shrewd; he
saw through me the first time we met, and told me
so — told me so to my face, which I had the virtue to
keep. I bear you no malice for it, Dick ; you were
right ; I am a humbug."

You may fancy how Esther quailed at this new
feature of the meeting between her two idols.

And then, again, in a parenthesis :

"That," said Van Tromp, "was when I had to
paint those dirty daubs of mine."

THE STORY OF A LIE 159

And a little further on, laughingly said perhaps,
but yet with an air of truth :

" I never had the slightest hesitation in sponging
upon any human creature."

Thereupon Dick got up.

" I think perhaps," he said, " we had better all be
thinking of going to bed." And he smiled with a
feeble and deprecatory smile.

" Not at all," cried the Admiral, " I know a trick
worth two of that. Puss here," indicating his
daughter, " shall go to bed ; and you and I will
keep it up till all's blue."

Thereupon Esther arose in sullen glory. She had
sat and listened for two mortal hours while her idol
defiled himself and sneered away his godhead. One
by one, her illusions had departed. And now he
wished to order her to bed in her own house ! now
he called her Puss ! now, even as he uttered the
words, toppling on his chair, he broke the stem of his
tobacco-pipe in three I Never did the sheep turn
upon her shearer with a more commanding front.
Her voice was calm, her enunciation a little slow, but
perfectly distinct, and she stood before him as she
spoke, in the simplest and most maidenly attitude.

" No," she said, " Mr. Naseby will have the good-
ness to go home at once, and you will go to bed."

The broken fragments of pipe fell from the
Admiral's fingers ; he seemed by his countenance
to have lived too long in a world unworthy of him ;
but it is an odd circumstance, he attempted no
reply, and sat thunderstruck, with open mouth.

Dick she motioned sharply towards the door, and

160 TALES AND FANTASIES

he could only obey her. In the porch, finding she
was close behind him, he ventured to pause and
whisper, "You have done right."

" I have done as I pleased," she said. " Can he
paint ? "

" Many people like his paintings/' returned Dick,
in stifled tones ; " I never did ; I never said I did,"
he added, fiercely defending himself before he was
attacked.

" I ask you if he can paint. I will not be put off.
Can he paint ? " she repeated.

" No," said Dick.

"Does he even like it?"

" Not now, I believe."

"And he is drunk?" — she leaned upon the word
with hatred.

" He has been drinking."

"Go," she said, and was turning to re-enter the
house when another thought arrested her. "Meet
me to-morrow morning at the stile," she said.

" I will," replied Dick.

And then the door closed behind her, and Dick
was alone in the darkness. There was still a chink
of light above the sill, a warm, mild glow behind the
window; the roof of the cottage and some of the
banks and hazels were defined in denser darkness
against the sky ; but all else was formless, breathless,
and noiseless like the pit. Dick remained as she had
left him, standing squarely upon one foot and resting
only on the toe of the other, and as he stood he
listened with his soul. The sound of a chair pushed
sharply over the floor startled his heart into his

THE STORY OF A LIE 161

mouth ; but the silence which had thus been dis-
turbed settled back again at once upon the cottage
and its vicinity. What took place during this interval
is a secret from the world of men ; but when it was
over the voice of Esther spoke evenly and without
interruption for pefnaps half a minute, and as soon
as that ceased heavy and uncertain footfalls crossed
the parlour and mounted lurching up the stairs. The
girl had tamed her father, Van Tromp had gone
obediently to bed : so much was obvious to the
watcher in the road. And yet he still waited, strain-
ing his ears, and with terror and sickness at his heart ;
for if Esther had followed her father, if she had even
made one movement in this great conspiracy of men
and nature to be still, Dick must have had instant
knowledge of it from his station before the door;
and if she had not moved, must she not have fainted ?
or might she not be dead ?

He could hear the cottage clock deliberately
measure out the seconds ; time stood still with him ;
an almost superstitious terror took command of his
faculties ; at last, he could bear no more, and, spring-
ing through the little garden in two bounds, he put
his face against the window. The blind, which had
not been drawn fully down, left an open chink about
an inch in height along the bottom of the glass, and
the whole parlour was thus exposed to Dick's investi-
gation. Esther sat upright at the table, her head
resting on her hand, her eyes fixed upon the candle.
Her brows were slightly bent, her mouth slightly
open; her whole attitude so still and settled that
Dick could hardly fancy that she breathed. She had

L

102 TALES AND FANTASIES

not stirred at the sound of Dick's arrival. Soon
after, making a considerable disturbance amid the
vast silence of the night, the clock lifted up its voice,
whined for a while like a partridge, and then eleven
times hooted like a cuckoo. Still Esther continued
immovable and gazed upon the candle. Midnight
followed, and then one of the morning ; and still she
had not stirred, nor had Richard Naseby dared to
quit the window. And then, about half-past one, the
candle she had been thus intently watching flared up
into a last blaze of paper, and she leaped to her feet
with an ejaculation, looked about her once, blew out
the light, turned round, and was heard rapidly mount-
ing the staircase in the dark.

Dick was left once more alone to darkness and to
that dulled and dogged state of mind when a man
thinks that Misery must now have done her worst,
and is almost glad to think so. He turned and
walked slowly towards the stile ; she had told him no
hour, and he was determined, whenever she came,
that she should find him waiting. As he got there
the day began to dawn, and he leaned over a hurdle
and beheld the shadows flee away. Up went the sun
at last out of a bank of clouds that were already
disbanding in the east; a herald wind had already
sprung up to sweep the leafy earth and scatter
the congregated dewdrops. "Alas!" thought Dick
Naseby, " how can any other day come so distaste-
fully to me ? " He still wanted his experience of the
morrow.

THE STORY OF A LIE 163

CHAPTER VII

THE ELOPEMENT

IT was probably on the stroke of ten, and Dick had
been half asleep for some time against the bank,
when Esther came up the road carrying a bundle.
Some kind of instinct, or perhaps the distant light
footfalls, recalled him, while she was still a good way
off, to the possession of his faculties, and he half
raised himself and blinked upon the world. It took
him some time to recollect his thoughts. He had
awakened with a certain blank and childish sense of
pleasure, like a man who had received a legacy over-
night ; but this feeling gradually died away, and was
then suddenly and stunningly succeeded by a convic-
tion of the truth. The whole story of the past night
sprang into his mind with every detail, as by an
exercise of the direct and speedy sense of sight, and
he arose from the ditch and, with rueful courage,
went to meet his love.

She came up to him walking steady and fast, her
face still pale, but to all appearance perfectly com-
posed; and she showed neither surprise, relief, nor
pleasure at finding her lover on the spot. Nor did
she offer him her hand.

11 Here I am," said he.

" Yes," she replied ; and then, without a pause or
any change of voice, " I want you to take me away,"
she added.

" Away ? " he repeated. " How ? Where ? "

164 TALES AND FANTASIES

"To-day," she said. " I do not care where it is,
but I want you to take me away."

"For how long? I do not understand," gasped
Dick.

" I shall never come back here any more," was all
she answered.

Wild words uttered, as these were, with perfect
quiet of manner and voice, exercise a double influ-
ence on the hearer's mind. Dick was confounded \ he
recovered from astonishment only to fall into doubt
and alarm. He looked upon her frozen attitude, so
discouraging for a lover to behold, and recoiled from
the thoughts which it suggested.

"To me?" he asked. "Are you coming to me,
Esther ? "

" 1 want you to take me away," she repeated with
weary impatience. " Take me away — take me away
from here."

The situation was not sufficiently denned. Dick
asked himself with concern whether she were alto-
gether in her right wits. To take her away, to marry
her, to work off his hands for her support, Dick was
content to do all this ; yet he required some show of
love upon her part. He was not one of those tough-
hided and small-hearted males who would marry
their love at the point of the bayonet rather than not
marry her at all. He desired that a woman should
come to his arms with an attractive willingness, if
not with ardour. And Esther's bearing was more
that of despair than that of love. It chilled him and
taught him wisdom.

" Dearest," he urged, " tell me what you wish, and

THE STORY OF A LIE 165

you shall have it ; tell me your thoughts, and then I
can advise you. But to go from here without a plan,
without forethought, in the heat of a moment, is
madder than madness, and can help nothing. I am
not speaking like a man, but I speak the truth ; and
'I tell you again, the thing's absurd, and wrong, and
hurtful."

She looked at him with a lowering, languid look of
wrath.

"So you will not take me?" she said. "Well, I
will go alone."

And she began to step forward on her way. But
he threw himself before her.

" Esther, Esther ! " he cried.

" Let me go — don't touch me — what right have
you to interfere ? Who are you, to touch me ? " she
flashed out, shrill with anger.

Then, being made bold by her violence, he took
her firmly, almost roughly, by the arm, and held her
while he spoke.

"You know*well who I am, and what I am, and
that I love you. You say I will not help you ; but
your heart knows the contrary. It is you who will
not help me ; for you will not tell me what you want.
You see — or you could see, if you took the pains to
look — how I have waited here all night to be ready
at your service. I only asked information ; I only
urged you to consider ; and I still urge and beg you
to think better of your fancies. But if your mind is
made up, so be it ; I will beg no longer ; I give you
my orders; and I will not allow — not allow you to
go hence alone."

166 TALES AND FANTASIES

She looked at him for a while with cold, unkind
scrutiny, like one who tries the temper of a tool.

"Well, take me away, then," she said with a sigh.

"Good," said Dick. "Come with me to the
stables ; there we shall get the pony-trap and drive to
the junction. To-night you shall be in London. I '
am yours so wholly that no words can make me more
so; and, besides, you know it, and the words are
needless. May God help me to be good to you,
Esther — may God help me ! for I see that you will
not"

So, without more speech, they set out together,
and were already got some distance from the spot, ere
he observed that she was still carrying the hand-bag.
She gave it up to him, passively, but when he offered
her his arm, merely shook her head and pursed up
her lips. The sun shone clearly and pleasantly ; the
wind was fresh and brisk upon their faces, and smelt
racily of woods and meadows. As they went down
into the valley of the Thyme, the babble of the stream
rose into the air like a perennial laughter. On the
far-away hills, sunburst and shadow raced along the
slopes and leaped from peak to peak. Earth, air, and
water, each seemed in better health and had more of
the shrewd salt of life in them than upon ordinary
mornings ; and from east to west, from the lowest
glen to the height of heaven, from every look and
touch and scent, a human creature could gather the
most encouraging intelligence as to the durability and
spirit of the universe.

Through all this walked Esther, picking her small
steps like a bird, but silent and with a cloud under

THE STORY OF A LIE 167

her thick eyebrows. She seemed insensible, not only
of nature, but of the presence of her companion.
She was altogether engrossed in herself, and looked
neither to right nor to left, but straight before her on
the road. When they came to the bridge, however,
she halted, leaned on the parapet, and stared for a
moment at the clear, brown pool, and swift, transient
snowdrift of the rapids.

" I am going to drink," she said ; and descended
the winding footpath to the margin.

There she drank greedily in her hands and washed
her temples with water. The coolness seemed to
break, for an instant, the spell that lay upon her;
for, instead of hastening forward again in her dull,
indefatigable tramp, she stood still where she was,
for near a minute, looking straight before her. And
Dick, from above on the bridge where he stood to
watch her, saw a strange, equivocal smile dawn slowly
on her face and pass away again at once and suddenly,
leaving her as grave as ever ; and the sense of dis-
tance, which it is so cruel for a lover to endure,
pressed with every moment more heavily on her com-
panion. Her thoughts were all secret; her heart
was locked and bolted ; and he stood without, vainly
wooing her with his eyes.

" Do you feel better ? " asked Dick, as she at last
rejoined him ; and after the constraint of so long a
silence, his voice sounded foreign to his own ears.

She looked at him for an appreciable fraction of a
minute ere she answered, and when she did, it was in
the monosyllable— "Yes."

Dick's solicitude was nipped and frosted. His

168 TALES AND FANTASIES

words died away on his tongue. Even his eyes, de-
spairing of encouragement, ceased to attend on hers.
And they went on in silence through Kirton hamlet,
where an old man followed them with his eyes, and
perhaps envied them their youth and love; and
across the Ivy beck where the mill was splashing
and grumbling low thunder to itself in the chequered
shadow of the dell, and the miller before the door
was beating flour from his hands as he whistled a
modulation; and up by the high spinney, whence
they saw the mountains upon either hand ; and down
the hill again to the back courts and offices of Naseby
House. Esther had kept ahead all the way, and Dick
plodded obediently in her wake ; but as they neared
the stables, he pushed on and took the lead. He
would have preferred her to await him in the road
while he went on and brought the carriage back, but
after so many repulses and rebuffs he lacked courage
to offer the suggestion. Perhaps, too, he felt it wiser
to keep his convoy within sight. So they entered the
yard in Indian file, like a tramp and his wife.

The groom's eyebrows rose as he received the
order for the pony-phaeton, and kept rising during
all his preparations. Esther stood bolt upright and
looked steadily at some chickens in the corner of the
yard. Master Richard himself, thought the groom,
was not in his ordinary ; for, in truth, he carried the
hand-bag like a talisman, and either stood listless, or
set off suddenly walking in one direction after another
with brisk, decisive footsteps. Moreover, he had
apparently neglected to wash his hands, and bore
the air of one returning from a prolonged nutting

THE STORY OF A LIE 169

ramble. Upon the groom's countenance there began
to grow up an expression as of one about to whistle.
And hardly had the carriage turned the corner and
rattled into the high road with this inexplicable pair,
than the whistle broke forth — prolonged, and low and
tremulous; and the groom, already so far relieved,
vented the rest of his surprise in one simple English
word, friendly to the mouth of Jack-tar and the sooty
pitman, and hurried to spread the news round the
servants' hall of Naseby House. Luncheon would
be on the table in little beyond an hour ; and the
Squire, on sitting down, would hardly fail to ask for
Master Richard. Hence, as the intelligent reader
can foresee, this groom has a part to play in the
imbroglio.

Meantime, Dick had been thinking deeply and
bitterly. It seemed to him as if his love had gone
from him, indeed, yet gone but a little way ; as if he
needed but to find the right touch or intonation, and
her heart would recognise him and be melted. Yet
he durst not open his mouth, and drove in silence
till they had passed the main park-gates and turned
into the cross-cut lane along the wall. Then it
seemed to him as if it must be now, or never.

"Can't you see you are killing me?" he cried.
"Speak to me, look at me, treat me like a human
man."

She turned slowly and looked him in the face with
eyes that seemed kinder. He dropped the reins
and caught her hand, and she made no resistance,
although her touch was unresponsive. But when,
throwing one arm round her waist, he sought to kiss

170 TALES AND FANTASIES

her lips, not like a lover indeed, not because he
wanted to do so, but as a desperate man who puts
his fortunes to the touch, she drew away from him,
with a knot in her forehead, backed and shied about
fiercely with her head, and pushed him from her with
her hand. Then there was no room left for doubt,
and Dick saw, as clear as sunlight, that she had a
distaste or nourished a grudge against him.

" Then you don't love me ? " he said, drawing back
from her, he also, as though her touch had burnt
him ; and then, as she made no answer, he repeated
with another intonation, imperious and yet still
pathetic, "You don't love me, do you, do you?"

" I don't know," she replied. " Why do you ask
me ? Oh, how should I know ? It has all been lies
together — lies, and lies, and lies ! "

He cried her name sharply, like a man who has
taken a physical hurt, and that was the last word
that either of them spoke until they reached Thyme-
bury Junction.

This was a station isolated in the midst of moor-
lands, yet lying on the great up-line to London.
The nearest town, Thymebury itself, was seven miles
distant along the branch they call the Vale of Thyme
Railway. It was now nearly half an hour past noon,
the down train had just gone by, and there would be
no more traffic at the junction until half-past three,
when the local train comes in to meet the up express
at a quarter before four. The stationmaster had
already gone off to -his garden, which was half a mile
away in a hollow of the moor ; a porter, who was just
leaving, took charge of the phaeton, and promised to

THE STORY OF A LIE 171

return it before night to Naseby House ; only a deaf,
snuffy, and stern old man remained to play propriety
for Dick and Esther.

Before the phaeton had driven off, the girl had
entered the station and seated herself upon a bench.
The endless, empty moorlands stretched before her,
entirely unenclosed, and with no boundary but the
horizon. Two lines of rails, a waggon shed, and a
few telegraph posts, alone diversified the outlook.
As for sounds, the silence was unbroken save by
the chant of the telegraph wires and the crying of
the plovers on the waste. With the approach of
midday the wind had more and more fallen, it was
now sweltering hot and the air trembled in the
sunshine.

Dick paused for an instant on the threshold of
the platform. Then, in two steps, he was by her side
and speaking almost with a sob.

" Esther," he said, " have pity on me. What have
I done? Can you not forgive me? Esther, you
loved me once — can you not love me still ? "

" How can I tell you ? How am I to know ? " she
answered. " You are all a lie to me — all a lie from
first to last. You were laughing at my folly, playing
with me like a child, at the very time when you
declared you loved me. Which was true? was any
of it true ? or was it all, all a mockery ? I am weary
trying to find out. And you say I loved you ; I loved
my father's friend. I never loved, I never heard of,
you, until that man came home and I began to find
myself deceived. Give me back my father, be what
you were before, and you may talk of love indeed ! "

172 TALES AND FANTASIES

"Then you cannot forgive me — cannot?" he
asked.

" I have nothing to forgive," she answered. " You
do not understand."

" Is that your last word, Esther ? " said he, very
white, and biting his lip to keep it still.

" Yes, that is my last word," replied she.

"Then we are here on false pretences, and we
stay here no longer," he said. " Had you still loved
me, right or wrong, I should have taken you away,
because then I could have made you happy. But
as it is — I must speak plainly — what you propose is
degrading to you, and an insult to me, and a rank
unkindness to your father. Your father may be
this or that, but you should use him like a fellow-
creature."

"What do you mean?" she flashed. "I leave
him my house and all my money ; it is more than he
deserves. I wonder you dare speak to me about that
man. And besides, it is all he cares for; let him
take it, and let me never hear from him again."

" I thought you romantic about fathers," he said.

" Is that a taunt ? " she demanded.

"No," he replied, "it is an argument. No one
can make you like him, but don't disgrace him in his
own eyes. He is old, Esther, old and broken down.
Even I am sorry for him, and he has been the loss of
all I cared for. Write to your aunt ; when J see her
answer you can leave quietly and naturally, and I
will take you to your aunt's door. But in the mean
time you must go home. You have no money, and
so you are helpless, and must do as I tell you ; and

THE STORY OF A LIE 173

believe me, Esther, I do all for your good, and your
good only, so God help me."

She had put her hand into her pocket and with-
drawn it- empty.

" I counted upon you," she wailed.

" You counted rightly then," he retorted. " I will
not, to please you for a moment, make both of us
unhappy for our lives ; and since I cannot marry you,
we have only been too long away, and must go home
at once." •

" Dick," she cried suddenly, " perhaps I might —
perhaps in time — perhaps—

"There is no perhaps about the matter," inter-
rupted Dick. " I must go and bring the phaeton."

And with that he strode from the station, all in a
glow of passion and virtue. Esther, whose eyes had
come alive and her cheefcs flushed during these last
words, relapsed in a second into a state of petrifaction.
She remained without motion during his absence,
and when he returned suffered herself to be put back
into the phaeton, and driven off on the return journey
like an idiot or a tired child. Compared with what
she was now, her condition of the morning seemed
positively natural. She sat white and cold and silent,
and there was no speculation in her eyes. Poor
Dick flailed and flailed at the pony, and once tried
to whistle, but his courage was going down; huge
clouds of despair gathered together in his soul, and
from time to time their darkness was divided by a
piercing flash of longing and regret. He had lost his
love — he had lost his love for good.

The pony was tired, and the hills very long and

174 TALES AND FANTASIES

steep, and the air sultrier than ever, for now the
breeze began to fail entirely. It seemed as if this
miserable drive would never be done, as if poor Dick
would never be able to go away and be comfortably
wretched by himself; for all his desire was to escape
from her presence and the reproach of her averted
looks. He had lost his love, he thought — he had
lost his love for good.

They were already not far from the cottage, when
his heart again faltered and he appealed to her once
more, speaking low and eagerly in broken phrases.

"I cannot live without your love," he concluded.

" I do not understand what you mean," she replied,
and I believe with perfect truth.

"Then," said he, wounded to the quick, "your
aunt might come and fetch you herself. Of course
you can command me as you please. But I think it
would be better so."

"Oh yes," she said wearily, "better so."

This was the only exchange of words between
them till about four o'clock ; the phaeton, mounting
the lane, " opened out " the cottage between the
leafy banks. Thin smoke went straight up from the
chimney ; the flowers in the garden, the hawthorn in
the lane, hung down their heads in the heat; the
stillness was broken only by the sound of hoofs.
For right before the gate a livery servant rode slowly
up and down, leading a saddle horse. And in this
last Dick shuddered to identify his father's chestnut.

Alas ! poor Richard, what should this portend ?

The servant, as in duty bound, dismounted and
took the phaeton into his keeping ; yet Dick thought

THE STORY OF A LIE 175

he touched his hat to him with something of a grin.
Esther, passive as ever, was helped out and crossed
the garden with a slow and mechanical gait; and
Dick, following close behind her, heard from within
the cottage his father's voice upraised in an anathema,
and the shriller tones of the Admiral responding in
the key of war.

CHAPTER VIII

BATTLE ROYAL

SQUIRE NASEBY, on sitting down to lunch, had in-
quired for Dick, whom he had not seen since the
day before at dinner; and the servant answering
awkwardly that Master Richard had come back but
had gone out again with the pony-phaeton, his suspi-
cions became aroused, and he cross-questioned the
man until the whole was out. It appeared from this
report that Dick had been going about for nearly a
month with a girl in the Vale — a Miss Van Tromp ;
that she lived near Lord Trevanion's upper wood;
that recently Miss Van Tromp's papa had returned
home from foreign parts after a prolonged absence ;
that this papa was an old gentleman, very chatty and
free with his money in the public-house — whereupon
Mr. Naseby's face became encrimsoned ; that the
papa, furthermore, was said to be an admiral — where-
upon Mr. Naseby spat out a whistle brief and fierce
as an oath; that Master Dick seemed very friendly
with the papa — "God help him ! " said Mr. Naseby ;
that last night Master Dick had not come in, and

176 TALES AND FANTASIES

to-day he had driven away in the phaeton with the
young lady •

" Young woman," corrected Mr. Naseby.

"Yes, sir," said the man, who had been unwilling
enough to gossip from the first, and was now cowed
by the effect of his communications on the master.
11 Young woman, sir ! "

" Had they luggage ?" demanded the Squire.

"Yes, sir." -

Mr. Naseby was silent for a moment, struggling
to keep down his emotion, and he mastered it so far
as to mount into the sarcastic vein, when he was in
the nearest danger of melting into the sorrowful.

" And was this — this Van Dunk with them ? " he
asked, dwelling scornfully upon the name.

The servant believed not, and being eager to
shift the responsibility of speech to other shoulders,
suggested that perhaps the master had better inquire
further from George the stableman in person.

"Tell him to saddle the chestnut and come with
me. He can take the grey gelding ; for we may ride
fast. And then you can take away this trash," added
Mr. Naseby, pointing to the luncheon ; and he arose,
lordly in his anger, and marched forth upon the
terrace to await his horse.

There Dick's old nurse shrunk up to him, for the
news went like wildfire over Naseby House, and
timidly expressed a hope that there was nothing much
amiss with the young master.

" I'll pull him through," the Squire said grimly, as
though he meant to pull him through a threshing-
mill ; " I'll save him from this gang ; God help him

THE STORY OF A LIE 177

with the next ! He has a taste for low company, and
no natural affections to steady him. His father was
no society for him ; he must go fuddling with a Dutch-
man, Nance, and now he's caught. Let us pray he'll
take the lesson," he added more gravely, "but youth
is here to make troubles, and age to pull them out
again."

Nance whimpered and recalled several episodes of
Dick's childhood, which moved Mr. Naseby to blow
his nose and shake her hard by the hand ; and then,
the horse arriving opportunely, to get himself without
delay into the saddle and canter off.

He rode straight, hot spur, to Thymebury, where,
as was to be expected, he could glean no tidings ol
the runaways. They had not been seen at the George ;
they had not been seen at the station. The shadow
darkened on Mr. Naseby's face; the junction did not
occur to him ; his last hope was for Van Tromp's
cottage; thither he bade George guide him, and
thither he followed, nursing grief, anxiety, and in-
dignation in his heart.

l< Here it is, sir," said George, stopping.

" What ! on my own land ! " he cried. " How's
this? I let this place to somebody — M'Whirter or
M'Glashan."

" Miss M'Glashan was the young lady's aunt, sir,
1 believe," returned George.

"Ay — dummies," said the Squire. "I shall
whistle for my rent too. Here, take my horse."

The Admiral, this hot afternoon, was sitting by
the window with a long glass. He already knew the
Squire by sight, and now, seeing him dismount before

M

178 TALES AND FANTASIES

the cottage and come striding through the garden,
concluded without doubt he was there to ask foi
Esther's hand.

" This is why the girl is not yet home," he thought :
" a very suitable delicacy on young Naseby's part."

And he composed himself with some pomp,
answered the loud rattle of the riding-whip upon the
door with a dulcet invitation to enter, and coming
forward with a bow and a smile, " Mr. Naseby, I
believe ? " said he.

The Squire came armed for battle ; took in his man
from top to toe in one rapid and scornful glance, and
decided on a course at once. He must let the fellow
see that he understood him.

II You are Mr. Van Tromp ? " he returned roughly,
and without taking any notice of the proffered
hand.

" The same, sir," replied the Admiral. " Pray be
seated."

"No, sir," said the Squire, point-blank, "I will
not be seated. I am told that you are an admiral,"
he added.

" No, sir, I am not an admiral," returned Van
Tromp, who now began to grow nettled and enter
into the spirit of the interview.

" Then why do you call yourself one, sir ? "

II 1 have to ask your pardon, I do not," says Van
Tromp, as grand as the Pope.

But nothing was of avail against the Squire.

"You sail under false colours from beginning to
end," he said. " Your very house was taken under
a sham name."

THE STORY OF A LIE 179

" It is not my house. I am my daughter's guest,"
replied the Admiral. " If it were my house "

"Well?" said the Squire, "what then? hey?"

The Admiral looked at him nobly, but was silent.

" Look here," said Mr. Naseby, " this intimidation
is a waste of time ; it is thrown away on me, sir ; it
will not succeed with me. I will not permit you even
to gain time by your fencing. Now, sir, I presume
you understand what brings me here."

" I am entirely at a loss to account for your intru-
sion," bows and waves Van Tromp.

"I will try to tell you then. I come here as a
father " — down came the riding- whip upon the table
— " I have right and justice upon my side. I under-
stand your calculations, but you calculated without
me. I am a man of the world, and I see through
you and your manoeuvres. I am dealing now with a
conspiracy — I stigmatise it as such, and I will expose
it and crush it. And now I order you to tell me how
far things have gone, and whither you have smuggled
my unhappy son."

11 My God, sir ! " Van Tromp broke out, " I have
had about enough of this. Your son ? God knows
where he is for me ! What the devil have I to do
with your son ? My daughter is out, for the matter
of that ; I might ask you where she was, and what
would you say to that ? But this is all midsummer
madness. Name your business distinctly, and be
off."

" How often am I to tell you ? " cried the Squire.
" Where did your daughter take my son to-day in that
cursed pony-carriage ? "

i8o TALES AND FANTASIES

" In a pony-carriage ? " repeated Van Tromp.

" Yes, sir — with luggage."

" Luggage ? " — Van Tromp had turned a little
pale.

" Luggage, I said — luggage ! " shouted Naseby.
" You may spare me this dissimulation. Where's my
son ? You are speaking to a father, sir, a father."

" But, sir, if this be true," out came Van Tromp
in a new key, "it is I who have an explanation to
demand?"

" Precisely. There is the conspiracy," retorted
Naseby. " Oh ! " he added, " I am a man of the
world. I can see through and through you."

Van Tromp began to understand.

"You speak a great deal about being a father,
Mr. Naseby," said he; "I believe you forget that
the appellation is common to both of us. I am at a
loss to figure to myself, however dimly, how any man
— I have not said any gentleman — could so brazenly
insult another as you have been insulting me since
you entered this house. For the first time I appre-
ciate your base insinuations, and I despise them and
you. You were, I am told, a manufacturer ; I am an
artist; I have seen better days; I have moved in
societies where you would not be received, and dined
where you would be glad to pay a pound to see me
dining. The so-called aristocracy of wealth, sir, I
despise. I refuse to help you ; I refuse to be helped
by you. There lies the door."

And the Admiral stood forth in a halo.

It was then that Dick entered. He had been
waiting in the porch for some time back, and Esther

THE STORY OF A LIE 181

had been listlessly standing by his side. He had put
out his hand to bar her entrance, and she had sub-
mitted without surprise ; and though she seemed to
listen, she scarcely appeared to comprehend. Dick,
on his part, was as white as a sheet ; his eyes burned
and his lips trembled with anger as he thrust the
door suddenly open, introduced Esther with cere-
monious gallantry, and stood forward and knocked
his hat firmer on his head like a man about to leap.

"What is all this?" he demanded.

"Is this your father, Mr. Naseby?" inquired the
Admiral.

" It is," said the young man.

" I make you my compliments," returned Van
Tromp.

" Dick ! " cried his father, suddenly breaking forth,
" it is not too late, is it ? I have come here in time
to save you. Come, come away with me — come away
from this place."

And he fawned upon Dick with his hands.

" Keep your hands off me," cried Dick, not mean-
ing unkindness, but because his nerves were shattered
by so many successive miseries.

"No, no," said the old man, "don't repulse your
father, Dick, when he has come here to save you.
Don't repulse me, my boy. Perhaps I have not been
kind to you, not quite considerate, too harsh ; my
boy, it was not for want of love. Think of old times.
I was kind to you then, was I not ? — when you were
a child, and your mother was with us." Mr. Naseby
was interrupted by a sort of sob. Dick stood look-
ing at him in a maze. " Come away," pursued the

182 TALES AND FANTASIES

father in a whisper ; " you need not be afraid of any
consequences. I am a man of the world, Dick ; and
she can have no claim on you — no claim, I tell you ;
and we'll be handsome too, Dick — we'll give them a
good round figure, fajher and daughter, and there's
an end."

He had been trying to get Dick towards the door,
but the latter stood off.

"You had better take care, sir, how you insult that
lady," said the son, as black as night.

" You would not choose between your father and
your mistress ? " said the father.

" What do you call her, sir ? " cried Dick, high and
clear.

Forbearance and patience were not among Mr.
Naseby's qualities.

" I called her your mistress," he shouted, " and I
might have called her a ."

" That is an unmanly lie," replied Dick slowly.

" Dick ! " cried the father, " Dick ! "

" I do not care," said the son, strengthening him-
self against his own heart ; " I — I have said it, and
it is the truth."

There was a pause.

" Dick," said the old man at last, in a voice that
was shaken as by a gale of wind, " I am going. I
leave you with your friends, sir — with your friends.
I came to serve you, and now I go away a broken
man. For years I have seen this coming, and now
it has come. You never loved me. Now you have
been the death of me. You may boast of that.
Now I leave you. God pardon you."

THE STORY OF A LIE 183

With that he was gone ; and the three who remained
together heard his horse's hoofs descend the lane.
Esther had not made a sign throughout the interview,
and still kept silence now that it was over; but the
Admiral, who had once or twice moved forward and
drawn back again, now advanced for good.

" You are a man of spirit, sir," said he to Dick ;
" but though I am no friend to parental interference,
I will say that you were heavy on the governor."
Then he added with a chuckle: "You began,
Richard, with a silver spoon, and here you are in
the water like the rest. Work, work, nothing like
work. You have parts, you have manners; why,
with application you may die a millionaire ! "

Dick shook himself. He took Esther by the hand,
looking at her mournfully.

" Then this is farewell," he said.

"Yes," she answered. There was no tone in her
voice, and she did not return his gaze.

" For ever," added Dick.

" For ever," she repeated mechanically.

" I have had hard measure," he continued. " In
time I believe I could have shown you I was worthy,
and there was no time long enough to show how
much I loved you. But it was not to be. I have
lost all."

He relinquished her hand, still looking at her, and
she turned to leave the room.

"Why, what in fortune's name is the meaning of
ill this ? " cried Van Tromp. " Esther, come back ! "

"Let her go," said Dick, and he watched her
disappear with strangely mingled feelings For he

184 TALES AND FANTASIES

had fallen into that stage when men have the vertigo
of misfortune, court the strokes of destiny, and rush
towards anything decisive, that it may free them from
suspense though at the cost of ruin. It is one of the
many minor forms of suicide.

"She did not love me," he said, turning to her
father.

"I feared as much," said he, "when I sounded
her. Poor Dick, poor Dick. And yet I believe I
am as much cut up as you are. I was born to see
others happy."

" You forget," returned Dick, with something like
a sneer, "that I am now a pauper."

Van Tromp snapped his fingers.

" Tut ! " said he ; " Esther has plenty for us
all."

Dick looked at him with some wonder. It had
never dawned upon him that this shiftless, thriftless,
worthless, sponging parasite was yet, after and in spite
of all, not mercenary in the issue of his thoughts ;
yet so it was.

" Now, " said Dick, " I must go."

"Go?" cried Van Tromp. "Where? Not one
foot, Mr. Richard Naseby. Here you shall stay in
the mean time ! and — well, and do something practical
— advertise for a situation as private secretary — and
when you have it, go and welcome. But in the
mean time, sir, no false pride ; we must stay with our
friends ; we must sponge a while on Papa Van
Tromp, who has sponged so often upon us."

" By God ! " cried Dick, " I believe you are the best
of the lot."

THE STORY OF A LIE 185

" Dick, my boy," replied the Admiral, winking,
" you mark me, I am not the worst."

" Then why," began Dick, and then paused. " But
Esther," he began again*, once more to interrupt
himself. " The fact is, Admiral," he came out with
it roundly now, " your daughter wished to run away
from you to-day, and I only brought her back with
difficulty."

"In the pony-carriage ?" asked the Admiral, with
the silliness of extreme surprise.

" Yes," Dick answered.

" Why, what the devil was she running away
from?"

Dick found the question unusually hard to answer.

" Why," said he, " you know, you're a bit of a rip."

11 1 behave to that girl, sir, like an archdeacon,"
replied Van Tromp warmly.

" Well — excuse me — but you know you drink,"
insisted Dick.

" I know that I was a sheet in the wind's eye, sir,
once — once only, since I reached this place," retorted
the Admiral. "And even then I was fit for any
drawing-room. I should like you to tell me how
many fathers, lay and clerical, go upstairs every day
with a face like a lobster and cod's eyes — and are
dull, upon the back of it — not even mirth for the
money ! No, if that's what she runs for, all I say is,
let her run."

"You see," Dick tried it again, "she has
fancies "

" Confound her fancies ! " cried Van Tromp. " I
used her kindly ; she had her own way ; I was her

186 TALES AND FANTASIES

father. Besides I had taken quite a liking to the
girl, and meant to stay with her for good. But I tell
you what it is, Dick, since she has trifled with you
— Oh, yes, she did though ! — and since her old
papa's not good enough for her — the devil take' her,
jay I."

11 You will be kind to her at least ? " said Dick.

* I never was unkind to a living soul," replied the
Admiral. " Firm I can be, but not unkind."

"Well," said Dick, offering his hand, "God bless
you, and farewell."

The Admiral swore by all his gods he should not
go. " Dick," he said, " you are a selfish dog ; you
forget your old Admiral. You wouldn't leave him
alone, would you ? "

It was useless to remind him that the house was
not his to dispose of, that being a class of considera-
tions to which his intelligence was closed ; so Dick
tore himself off by force, and, shouting a good-bye,
made off along the lane to Thymebury.

CHAPTER IX

IN WHICH THE LIBERAL EDITOR REAPPEARS AS
"DEUS EX MACHINA"

IT was perhaps a week later, as old Mr. Naseby sat
brooding in his study, that there was shown in upon
him, on urgent business, a little hectic gentleman
shabbily attired.

"I have to ask pardon for this intrusion, Mr.
Naseby," he said; "but I come here to perform a

THE STORY OF A LIE 187

duty. My card has been sent in, but perhaps you
may not know, what it does not tell you, that I am
the editor of the Thymebury Star."

Mr. Naseby looked up, indignant.

11 1 cannot fancy," he said, " that we have much in
common to discuss."

" I have only a word to say — one piece of informa-
tion to communicate. Some months ago, we had —
you will pardon my referring to it, it is absolutely
necessary — but we had an unfortunate difference as
to facts."

" Have you come to apologise ? " asked the Squire
sternly.

"No, sir; to mention a circumstance. On the
morning in question, your son, Mr. Richard
Naseby "

" I do not permit his name to be mentioned."

" You will, however, permit me," replied the
Editor.

" You are cruel," said the Squire. He was right,
he was a broken man.

Then the Editor described Dick's warning visit;
and how he had seen in the lad's eye that there was
a thrashing in the wind, and had escaped through
pity only — so the Editor put it — " through pity only,
sir. And oh, sir," he went on, " if you had seen him
speaking up for you, I am sure you would have been
proud of your son. I know I admired the lad my-
self, and indeed that's what brings me here."

" I have misjudged him," said the Squire. " Do
you know where he is ? "

" Yes, sir, he lies sick at Thymebury."

i88 TALES AND FANTASIES

" You can take me to him ? "

" I can."

" I pray God he may forgive me," said the father.

And he and the Editor made post-haste for the
country town.

Next day the report went abroad that Mr. Richard
was reconciled to his father and had been taken
home to Naseby House. He was still ailing, it was
said, and the Squire nursed him like the proverbial
woman. Rumour, in this instance, did no more than
justice to the truth ; and over the sickbed many con-
fidences were exchanged, and clouds that had been
growing for years passed away in a few hours, and as
fond mankind loves to hope, for ever. Many long
talks had been fruitless in external action, though
fruitful for the understanding of the pair ; but at last,
one showery Tuesday, the Squire might have been
observed upon his way to the cottage in the lane.

The old gentleman had arranged his features with
a view to self-command, rather than external cheer-
fulness; and he entered the cottage on his visit of
conciliation with the bearing of a clergyman come to
announce a death.

The Admiral and his daughter were both within,
and both looked upon their visitor with more surprise
than favour.

"Sir," said he to Van Tromp, " I am told I have
done you much injustice."

There came a little sound in Esther's throat, and
she put her hand suddenly to her heart.

"You have, sir; and the acknowledgment suffices,"
replied the Admiral. " I am prepared, sir, to be easy

THE STORY OF A LIE 189

with you, since I hear you have made it up with my
friend Dick. But let me remind you that you owe
some apologies to this young lady also."

" I shall have the temerity to ask for more than her
forgiveness," said the Squire. " Miss Van Tromp,"
he continued, " once 1 was in great distress, and
knew nothing of you or your character ; but I believe
you will pardon a few rough words to an old man who
asks forgiveness from his heart. I have heard much
of you since then ; for you have a fervent advocate
in my house. I believe you will understand that I
speak of my son. He is, I regret to say, very far
from well ; he does not pick up as the doctors had
expected; he has a great deal upon his mind, and,
to tell you the truth, my girl, if you won't help us,
I am afraid I shall lose him. Come now, forgive
him ! I was angry with him once myself, and I
found I was in the wrong. This is only a misunder-
standing, like the other, believe me; and with one
kind movement, you may give happiness to him, and
to me, and to yourself."

Esther made a movement towards the door, but
long before she reached it she had broken forth
sobbing.

" It is all right," said the Admiral ; " I understand
the sex. Let me make you my compliments, Mr.
Naseby."

The Squire was too much relieved to be angry.

"My dear," said he to Esther, "you must not
agitate yourself."

" She had better go up and see him right away/
suggested Van Tromp.

I9o TALES AND FANTASIES

"I had not ventured to propose it," replied the
Squire. " Les convenances, I believe "

"fe m'en fake" cried the Admiral, snapping his
ringers. "She shall go and see my friend Dick.
Run and get ready, Esther."

Esther obeyed.

" She has not — has not run away again t " inquired
Mr. Naseby, as soon as she was gone.

" No," said Van Tromp, " not again. She is a
devilish odd girl though, mind you that."

" But I cannot stomach the man with the car-
buncles," thought the Squire.

And this is why there is a new household and a
brand-new baby in Naseby Dower House ; and why
the great Van Tromp lives in pleasant style upon the
shores of England; and why twenty-six individual
copies of the Thymebury Star are received daily at the
door of Naseby House.

THE END

PRINTED IN ENGLAND BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED,
LONDON AND BECCLES.

PR 5488 .T34 1920

snc

Stevenson, Robert Louis,

1850-1894.
Tales and fantasies.

AYF-2023 (mcab)